Strange places, coverts unendeared, In which this Child of Spring was reared, Is warmed, thro' Winter, by her feathery breast To the bleak winds she sometimes gives A slender, unexpected strain ; Proof that the hermitess still lives, Though she appear not, and be sought in vain. Say, Dora! tell me, by yon placid moon, you be, By lady-fingers tended with nice care, Or Nature's DARKLING of this mossy shed? XXII. THE DANISH BOY. A FRAGMENT. I. BETWEEN two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie 1825. And in this smooth and open dell A thing no storm can e'er destroy, II. In clouds above, the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest. No beast, no bird, hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers: to other dells Their burdens do they bear; The Danish Boy walks here alone : III. A Spirit of noonday is he; Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; A regal vest of fur he wears, It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; As budding pines in Spring; IV. A harp is from his shoulder slung; Of flocks upon the neighboring hill And often, when no cause appears, V. There sits he; in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove: From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war, For calm and gentle is his mien ; Like a dead Boy he is serene. XXIII. SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW. THOUGH the torrents from their fountains Clouds that love through air to hasten, Helmet-like themselves will fasten On the heads of towering hills. What, if through the frozen centre And the Sea-horse, though the ocean If on windy days the Raven The fleet Ostrich, till day closes Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. Day and night my toils redouble, Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul. 800. XXIV. STRAY PLEASURES. "Pleasure is spread through the earth By their floating mill, That lies dead and still, Behold yon Prisoners three, The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames ! The platform is small, but gives room for them all; And they're dancing merrily. From the shore come the notes To their mill where it floats, To their house and their mill tethered fast: |