pines in Spring;His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;
He rests the harp upon his knee,
And there in a forgotten tongue
He warbles melody.
Of flocks and herds both far and near
He is the darling and the joy,
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 cornerstone.
When near this blasted tree you pass,
Two sods are plainly to be seen
Close at its root, and each with grass
Is cover’d fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave
These two green sods together lie,
Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
Can these two sods together bind,
Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
But side by side the two are laid,
As if just sever’d by the spade.
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;
They seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES.
I.
It was an April Morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man’s speed, and yet the voice
Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was soften’d down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
The budding groves appear’d as if in haste
To spur the steps of June; as if their shades
Of various green were hindrances that stood
Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,
There was such deep contentment in the air
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, seem’d as though the countenance
With which it look’d on this delightful day
Were native to the summer. — Up the brook
I roam’d in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appear’d the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
The Shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song
Which, while I listen’d, seem’d like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here,
But ‘twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
And on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain Cottage might be seen.
I gaz’d and gaz’d, and to myself I said,
”Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.”
— Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of EMMA’S DELL.
II.
To JOANNA.
Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
Your time of early youth, and there you learn’d,
From years of quiet industry, to love
The living Beings by your own fireside,
With such a strong devotion, that your heart
