THE BUGLE.—Tennyson.

The splendor falls on castle walls, And snowy summits old in story; The long light shines across the lake, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going; Oh, sweet and far, from cliff and spar, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. Oh, love, they die in yon rich sky; They faint on field, or hill, or river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.