O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,Or but a wandering voice?

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

Beloved Vale, I said, When I shall con those many records of my childish years

Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;The Form remains, the Function never dies.

Another year! - another deadly blow!/ Another mighty empire overthrown!/ And we are left, or shall be left, alone.