VARIOUS

O, my love is like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June: O, my love is like the melody That’s sweetly play’d in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I, And I will love thee still, my dear, Till all the seas gang[58] dry. Till all the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun! And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee well, my only love, And fare thee well a while! And I will come again, my love, Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!

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[59] 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.

In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, The Roman noble lay; He drove abroad, in furious guise, Along the Appian way. He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crown’d his hair with flowers— No easier nor no quicker pass’d The impracticable hours. The brooding East with awe beheld Her impious younger world. The Roman tempest swell’d and swell’d, And on her head was hurled. The East bow’d low before the blast In patient, deep disdain; She let the legions thunder past, And plunged in thought again.

Genseric, King of the Vandals, who, having laid waste seven lands, From Tripolis far as Tangier, from the sea to the great desert sands, Was lord of the Moor and the African,—thirsting anon for new slaughter, Sail’d out of Carthage, and sail’d o’er the Mediterranean water; Plunder’d Palermo, seiz’d Sicily, sack’d the Lucanian coast, And paused, and said, laughing, “Where next?” Then there came to the Vandal a Ghost From the Shadowy Land that lies hid and unknown in the Darkness Below. And answered, “To Rome!” Said the King to the Ghost, “And whose envoy art thou? Whence com’st thou? and name me his name that hath sent thee: and say what is thine.” “From far: and His name that hath sent me is God,” the Ghost answered, “and mine Was Hannibal once, ere thou wast: and the name that I now have is Fate. But arise, and be swift, and return. For God waits, and the moment is late.” And, “I go,” said the Vandal. And went. When at last to the gates he was come, Loud he knock’d with his fierce iron fist. And full drowsily answer’d him Rome. “Who is it that knocketh so loud? Get thee hence. Let me be. For ’tis late.” “Thou art wanted,” cried Genseric. “Open! His name that hath sent me is Fate, And mine, who knock late, Retribution.” Rome gave him her glorious things; The keys she had conquer’d from kingdoms: the crowns she had wrested from kings: And Genseric bore them away into Carthage, avenged thus on Rome, And paused, and said, laughing, “Where next?” And again the Ghost answer’d him, “Home! For now God doth need thee no longer.” “Where leadest thou me by the hand?” Cried the King to the Ghost. And the Ghost answer’d, “Into the Shadowy Land.”

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossom’d many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play’d, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new! But you were living before that. And also you are living after, And the memory I started at— My starting moves your laughter! I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world, no doubt, Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone ’Mid the blank miles round about: For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! Well, I forget the rest.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.