One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small; A reasoning, self-sufficient thing, An intellectual All in All! Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. But who is He, with modest looks, He is retired as noontide dew, you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love. The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude. In common things that round us lie -The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak, both Man and Boy, Hath been an idler in the land; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand. -Come hither in thy hour of strength; Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave. A FRAGMENT, Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie And in this smooth and open dell And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy. In clouds above, the Lark is heard, He sings his blithest and his best; But in this lonesome nook the Bird Did never build his nest. No Beast, no Bird hath here his home; The Bees borne on the breezy air Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers, to other dells, Nor ever linger there. The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own. A spirit of noon day is he, He seems a Form of flesh and blood; Nor piping Shepherd shall he be, Nor Herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storın 'tis fresh and blue As budding pines in Spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, A harp is from his shoulder slung: Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies prick their ears, They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone. There sits he: in his face you spy Nor ever was a cloudless sky |