|Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyts New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922.|
|Let echo, too, perform her part,|
Prolonging every note with art;
And in a low expiring strain,
Play all the comfort oer again.
AddisonOde for St. Cecilias Day.
|Hark! to the hurried question of Despair|
Where is my child?An echo answersWhere?
ByronBride of Abydos. Canto II. St. 27.
| 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?|
From an Arabic MS. quoted by RogersPleasures of Memory. Pt. I.
|Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.|
Barry CornwallEnglish Songs and Other Small Poems. The Sea in Calm. Pt. III.
|Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far,|
The voice divine of human loyalty.
George EliotThe Spanish Gypsy. Bk. IV. L. 149.
|Echo waits with art and care|
And will the faults of song repair.
EmersonMay-day. L. 439.
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance.
* * * * * *
And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.
LongfellowEvangeline. Pt. II. L. 56.
|Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that livst unseen|
Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meanders 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, oer lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.
|And more than echoes talk along the walls.|
PopeEloisa to Abelard. L. 306.
|But her voice is still living immortal,|
The same you have frequently heard,
In your rambles in valleys and forests,
Repeating your ultimate word.
J. G. SaxeThe Story of Echo.
|The babbling echo mocks the hounds,|
Replying shrilly to the well-tund horns,
As if a double hunt were heard at once.
Titus Andronicus. Act II. Sc. 3. L. 17.
|Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,|
And feeds her grief.
ShelleyAdonais. St. 15.
|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.
TennysonGolden Year. L. 75.
|And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke|
From the red-ribbd hollow behind the wood,
And thunderd up into Heaven.
TennysonMaud. Pt. XXIII.
|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.
TennysonPrincess. IV. Bugle Song.
|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.
Frederick TennysonIsles of Greece. Apollo. L. 367.
|Likebut oh! how different!|
WordsworthYes, it Was the Mountain Echo.
|The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,|
Whispering faint echoes of the worlds applause.
YoungNight Thoughts. Night IX.