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It is a spot which you may see
If ever you to Langdale go:

Into a chasm a mighty block

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock;

The gulf is deep below,

And in a basin black and small

Receives a lofty waterfall.

With staff in hand, across the cleft
The challenger pursued his march;
And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'd
The middle of the arch.

When, list! he hears a piteous moan;
Again! his heart within him dies,
His pulse is stopp'd, his breath is lost,
He totters, pallid as a ghost,
And, looking down, espies

A lamb, that in the pool is pent
Within that black and frightful rent.

The lamb had slipp'd into the stream,
And safe, without a bruise or wound,
The cataract had borne him down
Into the gulf profound.

His dam had seen him when he fell-
She saw him down the torrent borne;
And while, with all a mother's love,
She, from the lofty rocks above,

Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The lamb, still swimming round and round, Made answer to that plaintive sound.

When he had learnt what thing it was

That sent this rueful cry, I ween
The boy recover'd heart, and told
The sight which he had seen.
Both gladly now deferr'd their task;
Nor was there wanting other aid:
A poet, one who loves the brooks
Far better than the sages? books,
By chance had thither stray'd;

And there the helpless lamb he found
By those huge rocks encompass'd round.

He drew it from the troubled pool,

And brought it forth into the light:
The shepherds met him with his charge,

An unexpected sight!

Into their arms the lamb they took,

Whose life and limbs the flood had spared:

Then up the steep ascent they hied,

And placed him at his mother's side;

And gently did the bard

Those idle shepherd boys upbraid,

And bade them better mind their trade.

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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 burdens do they bear:
The Danish boy walks here alone,

The lovely dell is all his own.

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.

A harp is from his shoulder slung;
Resting the harp upon his knee,
To words of a forgotten tongue

He suits its melody.

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