. Home school of American literature: . ,That, fluting a wild carol ere her her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs. Long stood Sir BedivereRevolving many memories, till the hullLookd one black dot against the verge of on the mere the wailing died away. • O^O BUGLE SONG. The Princess. m HE splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the the wild cataract leaps in , bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,dying. O hark, O hear; how thin, how clear
. Home school of American literature: . ,That, fluting a wild carol ere her her pure cold plume, and takes the floodWith swarthy webs. Long stood Sir BedivereRevolving many memories, till the hullLookd one black dot against the verge of on the mere the wailing died away. • O^O BUGLE SONG. The Princess. m HE splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the the wild cataract leaps in , bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,dying. O hark, O hear; how thin, how clear, ,And thinner, clearer, further going !O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe 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 forever and , bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ;And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, •o^ The splendor falls on casUe walls. REAK, break, break On thy cold gray stones, O Sea !And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. O well for the fishermans boy. That he shouts with his sister at play ! O well for the sailor-lad. That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 6o8 ALFRED TENNYSON. And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished handAnd the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. ..o^o«- GARDEN SONG.«• Maud. l^^aiOME into the garden, Maud,Ik^^l ^°^ -^^ black bat. Night, has flown;Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she
Size: 1472px × 1698px
Photo credit: © Reading Room 2020 / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bo, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, booksubjectenglishliterature
