Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.

For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

The mighty hopes that make us men.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

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.