Oh! sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.
Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O Love, they die on yon rich sky,
They faint on hill, on field, on river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer dying, dying, dying.