Turning and twisting,
Around and around,
With endless rebound!
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;

Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting,

Receding and speeding,

And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,

And whizzing and hissing,

And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and spitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning.

And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering.

Dividing, and gliding, and sliding,
And falling, and brawling, and sprawling,
And diving, and riving, and striving,
And sprinkling, and twinkling, and wrinkling,
And sounding, and bounding, and rounding,
And bubbling, and troubling, and doubling,
And grumbling, and rumbling, and tumbling,
And clattering, and battering, and shattering.

Retreating, and beating, and meeting, and sheeting,
Delaying, and straying, and playing, and spraying,
Advancing, and prancing, and glancing, and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling, and boiling,
And gleaming, and streaming, and steaming, and
beaming,

And rushing, and flushing, and brushing, and gushing,

And flapping, and rapping, and clapping, and slapping,

And curling, and whirling, and purling, and twirling, And thumping, and plumping, and bumping, and jumping,

And dashing, and flashing, and splashing, and clashing,

And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

SOUTHEY.

The Bugle Song.

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.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

The Pounder1.

THE Christians have beleaguer'd the famous walls
of Xeres:

Among them are Don Alvar, and Don Diego
Perez,

1 Mr. Lockhart, in his note to this ballad, informs us that it relates to a doughty knight of the family, and most probably a brother, of the renowned Garcia Perez de Vargas, whose story is thus alluded to by Don Quixote in the Chapter of the Windmills: :-"I tell this, because I intend to tear up the next oak or holm-tree we meet; with the trunk whereof I hope to perform such deeds, that thou wilt esteem thyself happy in having had the honour to behold them, and been the ocular witness of achievements which posterity will scarce be able to believe." "Heaven grant you may!" cried Sancho. "I believe it all, because your worship says it."

À

And many other gentlemen, who, day succeeding day, Give challenge to the Saracen and all his chivalry.

When rages the hot battle before the gates of Xeres,

By trace of gore ye may explore the dauntless path of Perez:

No knight like Don Diego-no sword like his is

found

In all the host, to hew the boast of Paynims to the ground.

It fell one day when furiously they battled on the

plain,

Diego shiver'd both his lance and trusty blade in

twain:

The Moors that saw it shouted, for esquire none

was near

To serve Diego at his need with falchion, mace, or

spear.

Loud, loud he blew his bugle, sore troubled was

his eye,

But by God's grace, before his face there stood a tree full nigh

An olive-tree, with branches strong, close by the wall of Xeres:

"Yon goodly bough will serve, I trow," quoth Don Diego Perez.

A gnarled branch he soon did wrench down from that olive strong,

Which o'er his head-piece brandishing, he spurs among the throng: