I Between Two Sister Moorland Rills There Is A Spot That Seems To Lie Sacred To Flowerets 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 Lonely Hut; And In This Dell You See A Thing No Storm Can E'Er Destroy, The Shadow Of A Danish Boy. 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 Burthens Do They Bear; The Danish Boy Walks Here Alone: The Lovely Dell Is All His Own. Iii A Spirit Of Noon-Day Is He; Yet 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. Iv A Harp Is From His Shoulder Slung; Resting The Harp Upon His Knee, To Words Of A Forgotten Tongue He Suits Its Melody. Of Flocks Upon The Neighbouring Hill 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 Sings Alone Beside The Tree And Corner-Stone. 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, That Seem Like Songs Of Love, For Calm And Gentle Is His Mien; Like A Dead Boy He Is Serene.