Creature none can she decoy

Into open sign of joy :
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell

Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every Creature;

Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show,
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,—
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Laura's face;

Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine

That your transports are not mine,

That I do not wholly fare

Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair!

And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,

Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess

Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
-Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an Infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy;

I would fare like that or this,

Find my wisdom in my bliss;

Keep the sprightly soul awake,

And have faculties to take,

Even from things by sorrow wrought,

Matter for a jocund thought;

Spite of care, and spite of grief,

To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

XIX.

A FRAGMENT.

BETWEEN two sister moorland rills

There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flow'rets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
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 storm 'tis fresh and blue

As budding 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 upon the neighbouring hills
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 corner-stone.

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,

That seem like songs of love,

For calm and gentle is his mien;

Like a dead Boy he is serene.

VOL. I.

U