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Let echo, too, perform her part, Prolonging every note with art; And in a low expiring strain, Play all the comfort o'er again.

Hark! to the hurried question of Despair "Where is my child?"--An echo answers-- "Where?"

Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors. - Barry Cornwall ,

Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, The voice divine of human loyalty.

Echo waits with art and care And will the faults of song repair.

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance. . . . . And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.

How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light.

And more than echoes talk along the walls.

I came to the place of my birth and cried: "The friends of my youth, where are they?"--and an echo answered, "Where are they?"

But her voice is still living immortal, The same you have frequently heard, In your rambles in valleys and forests, Repeating your ultimate word.

The birds chaunt melody on every bush, The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a checkered shadow on the ground; Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once, Let us sit down and mark their yellowing noise; And after conflict such as was supposed The wand'ring prince and Dido once enjoyed, When with a happy storm they were surprised, And curtained with a counsel-keeping cave, We may, each wreathed in the other's arms, Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber, Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse's song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief.

Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue. Nought but one thing can confound me, Many voices joining round me, Then I fret, and rave, and gabble, Like the labourers of Babel.

I heard . . . . . . the great echo flap And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff.

And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood, And thunder'd up into Heaven.

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

What would it profit thee to be the first Of echoes, tho thy tongue should live forever, A thing that answers, but hath not a thought As lasting but as senseless as a stone.

Like--but oh! how different!

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.