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 CHARACTER_, _In the antithetical Manner_. I marvel how Nature could ever find space For the weight and the levity seen in his face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom, And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease. There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs, Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there. There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name. What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art, --Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart, And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he. A FRAGMENT Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowrets 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 beet; 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; A piping Shepherd he might be, A Herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears nor 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 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 corner-stone.