What news, Belovèd, from thy native hills,
What tuneful tidings from the Hills of Dream?
Does dim old Merlin follow yet the Gleam?
Do climbers still forget all mortal ills,
Even the lapsing of life's little stream?

The waves and billows have gone over thee;
Thy precious things have fed the insatiate brine.
Still on the heights thy changeless beacons shine
Above the furthest reaches of the sea,
Thine altar-glow invincibly divine.

The meads and valleys ring with viol and lute,
With harp and dulcimer and soft citole;
The music leaps from blossoming knoll to knoll;
But on the naked peak the dreams are mute,
And undistinguishable song from soul.