THE NIGHTS.

BARRY CORNwall.

Оn, the Summer Night
Has a smile of light,

And she sits on a sapphire throne;

Whilst the sweet Winds load her
With garlands of odour,

From the bud to the rose o'er-blown!

But the Autumn Night

Has a piercing sight,

And a step both strong and free;
And a voice for wonder,

Like the wrath of the Thunder,

When he shouts to the stormy sea!

And the Winter Night

Is all cold and white,

And she singeth a song of pain;
Till the wild bee hummeth,

And warm spring cometh,

When she dies in a dream of rain!

Oh, the Night brings sleep
To the green woods deep;

To the bird of the woods its nest
To care soft hours

To life new powers;

To the sick and the weary,-Rest!

THE BUGLE SONG.

ALFRED TENNYSON. From the "Princess."

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.

Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going;
Oh 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.

Oh love, they die in yon rich sky!

They faint on hill, on field, on 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.

VIZETELLY AND COMPANY, PRINTERS AND ENGRAVERS, FLEET STREET, LONDON.