Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/349

289 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.