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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.
- Joseph Addison, Ode for St. Cecelia's Day
Hark! how the gentle echo from her cell
Talks through the cliffs, and murmuring o'er the stream,
Repeats the accent--we shall part no more.
- Mark Akenside
Where we find echoes, we generally find emptiness and hollowness; it is the contrary with the echoes of the heart.
- John Frederick Boyes
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair
"Where is my child?"--An echo answers--
- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),
The Bride of Abydos (canto II, st. 27)
The shadow of a sound,--a voice without a mouth, and words without a tongue.
- Paul Chatfield (a/k/a Horace Smith)
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
- Barry Cornwall (pseudonym of Bryan Waller Procter),
English Songs and Other Small Poems--The Sea in Calm
Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far,
The voice divine of human loyalty.
- George Eliot (pseudonym of Mary Ann Evans Cross),
The Spanish Gypsy (bk. IV, l. 149)
Echo waits with art and care
And will the faults of song repair.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson, May-day (l. 439)
Echo is the voice of a reflection in a mirror.
- Nathaniel Hawthorne
And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance.
. . . .
And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline
(pt. II, l. 56)
Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroidered vale.
- John Milton, Comus--Song
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.
- Thomas Moore, Echo
That tuneful nymph, the babbling Echo.
- Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso)
The old echoes are long in dying.
- Charles Henry Parkhurst
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
- Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard (l. 306)
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?"
- Samuel Rogers, Pleasures of Memory (pt. I),
quoted from an Arabic manuscript
But her voice is still living immortal,
The same you have frequently heard,
In your rambles in valleys and forests,
Repeating your ultimate word.
- John Godfrey Saxe, The Story of Echo
The babbling gossip of the air.
- William Shakespeare
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.
- William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus
(Tamora at II, iii)
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley, Adonais (st. 15)
The invisible and loquacious maiden of the mountain passes.
- Horace (Horatio) Smith (a/k/a Paul Chatfield)
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.
- Jonathan Swift, An Echo
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 forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
- Lord Alfred Tennyson
I heard . . .
. . . the great echo flap
And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff.
- Lord Alfred Tennyson, Golden Year (l. 75)
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