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

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

Let echo, too, perform her part,
Prolonging every note with art;
And in a low expiring strain,
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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.

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

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

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she read more

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.

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

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

The birds chaunt melody on every bush,
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,
The green read more

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.

Like--but oh! how different!

Like--but oh! how different!

But her voice is still living immortal,
The same you have frequently heard,
In your rambles in read more

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

What would it profit thee to be the first
Of echoes, tho thy tongue should live forever,
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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.