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The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going !
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying :
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river :
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And
grow

for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

IV.

• 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
Our elbows : on a tripod in the midst

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,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

“ 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
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

“Dear as remember'd kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.”

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
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men,

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,
But trim our sails, and let old bygones be,

While down the streams that float us each and all

To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice,
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste

Becomes a cloud : for all things serve their time
Toward that great year of equal mights and rights,
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end
Found golden : let the past be past ; let be
Their cancell’d Babels : tho' the rough kex break

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
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns

Above the unrisen morrow :' then to me;

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Know

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.'

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