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The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going !
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river :
for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
• THERE sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun,
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound'
Said Ida ; let us down and rest :' and we
Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices,
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and cleft,
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where below No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent Lamp-lit from the inner.
Once she lean'd on me, Descending ; once or twice she lent her hand, And blissful palpitations in the blood, Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell.
But when we planted level feet, and dipt Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in,
There leaning deep in broider'd down we sank
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold.
Then she . Let some one sing to us : lightlier move
The minutes fledged with music :' and a maid,
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang.
“ Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
“ Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge ;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds
“Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
She ended with such passion that the tear, She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl
Lost in her bosom : but with some disdain
Answer'd the Princess If indeed there haunt
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past
Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool
And so pace by : but thine are fancies hatch'd
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost,
While down the streams that float us each and all
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice,
Becomes a cloud : for all things serve their time
The starr’d mosaic, and the wild goat hang
Upon the shaft, and the wild figtree split
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear
A trumpet in the distance pealing news
Above the unrisen morrow :' then to me;
you no song of your own land,' she said,
• Not such as moans about the retrospect,
But deals with the other distance and the hues
Of promise ; not a death’s-head at the wine.'