The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long night shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Bugle, blow; 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 Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Bugle, blow 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,
Bugle, blow answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
Composition:
Set to music by (Edward) Benjamin Britten (1913 - 1976), "Nocturne", op. 31 no. 2 (1943), published 1944, first performed 1943 [ tenor, horn, and strings or piano ], from Serenade for tenor, horn and strings, no. 2, London : Boosey & Hawkes
Text Authorship:
See other settings of this text.
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- CAT Catalan (Català) (Salvador Pila) , copyright © 2021, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Jean-Pierre Granger) , "Nocturne", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- ITA Italian (Italiano) (Ferdinando Albeggiani) , copyright © 2025, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- NYN Norwegian (Nynorsk) (Are Frode Søholt) , "Nattstemning", copyright © 2004, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- SPA Spanish (Español) (Pablo Sabat) , "Nocturno"
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 18
Word count: 133
L’esplendor s’abat damunt la muralla del castell
i els antics cims nevats:
l’extensa claror tremola a través dels llacs,
i furient, la cascada es precipita en plena glòria:
Sona, clarí, sona, fes volar els ecos salvatges,
sona clarí; respongueu, ecos, morint, morint, morint.
Oh escolteu, oh sentiu, que tènues i clars
i encara més tènues i clars quan s’allunyen!
Oh que dolços i llunyans, des dels cingles i els espadats,
els corns del país dels elfs sonen feblement!
Sona, deixa’ns sentir com responen les purpúries valls:
sona clarí; respongueu, ecos, morint, morint, morint.
Oh amor, moren allà al cel esplendent,
s’esvaneixen als tossals o als camps o als rius:
els nostres ecos rodolen d’ànima en ànima
i creixen per sempre i sempre.
Sona, clarí, sona, fes volar els ecos salvatges,
i ecos, respongueu, morint, morint, morint.
