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

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

Like--but oh! how different!

And more than echoes talk along the walls.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors. - Barry Cornwall (pseudonym of Bryan Waller Procter),

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

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

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

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