THE splendor falls on castle walls And the wild cataract leaps in 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. SONG FROM JASON. I KNOW a little garden close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering. And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before. There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry. For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek. Yet tottering as I am and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place, To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MORRIS. OF A' THE AIRTS. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw There wild woods grow, and rivers row, Wi' mony a hill between; Baith day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers Sae lovely fresh and fair, I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi' music charm the air: Sad before her leaned the boy, "Goldilocks that I love well, Happy creature fair and coy, Think o' me, sweet Amabel." Like a blossom in her heart, As a gloriole sign o' grace, Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, Ah! the playtime she has known, Childhood over like a song? O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. O MY luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O my luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly played in tune. Tell her that wastes her time and |