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Never comes the trader, never floats an Not in vain the distance beacons. ForEuropean flag;

ward, forward let us range: Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, Let the great world spin for ever down the swings the trailer from the crag;

ringing grooves of change.

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs Through the shadow of the globe we the heavy-fruited tree

sweep into the younger day: Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of spheres of sea.




There, methinks, would be enjoyment more

than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the

thoughts that shake mankind.

Mother-Age, — for mine I knew not, –

help me as when life begun: Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the

lightnings, weigh the sun.

There the passions, cramped no longer, O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit

shall have scope and breathing space: hath not set! I will take some savage woman, she shall Ancient founts of inspiration well through rear my dusky race.

all my fancy yet.

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So pass

I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-armed I ride, whate'er betide,

Until I find the Holy Grail.

Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one,



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(1848. Proem of Canto FOURTH) The splendor 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 Aying;

5 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 Elfand faintly blow

ing! Blow: let us hear the purple glens reply

ing: 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.


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(1850. Proem of CANTO THIRD) Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go,

5 Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me: While my little one, while my pretty one,


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Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a

sail That brings our friends up from the un


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(1850. Proem of Canto Sixth) Home they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swooned nor uttered cry. All her maidens, watching, said,

“She must weep or she will die.” Then they praised him, soft and low,

Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face-cloth from the face;

Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee – Like summer tempest came her tears:

"Sweet my child, I live for thee.”

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(1850. Proem of Canto SEVENTH) Ask me no more: the moon may draw the

sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and

take the shape,

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.

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