"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."

"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."

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

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

"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."

"The dew, 'Tis of the tears which stars weep, sweet with joy."

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

"The babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tun'd horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once."

"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 more than echoes talk along the walls."

"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."

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

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

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

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

"Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors."

"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?""

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

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

"From drooping leaves, and bending flowers, Exhaled the midnight dews ! Like love that from its inmost thoughts Its own sweet life renews."

"And every dew-drop paints a bow."

"My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle."

"I shall be like that tree,—I shall die at the top."

"All that's bright must fade,— The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest."

"There seems to be a constant decay of all our ideas; even of those which are struck deepest, and in minds the most retentive, so that if they be not sometimes renewed by repeated exercises of the senses, or reflection on those kinds of objects which at first occasioned them, the print wears out, and at last there remains nothing to be seen."

"An age that melts with unperceiv'd decay, And glides in modest innocence away."

"A worm is in the bud of youth, And at the root of age."

"He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires;— As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away."

"Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away. Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day."

"In the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells."

"As is the bud bit with an envious worm, Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the sun."

"The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he; His time is spent."

"The body politic, as well as the human body, begins to die as soon as it is born, and carries in itself the causes of its own destruction."

"Leaves grow green to fall, Flowers grow fair to fade, Fruits grow ripe to rot — All but for passing made."

"A gilded halo hovering round decay."

"You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave?"

"One of those heavenly days that cannot die."

"Mes jours s'en sont allez errant."

"Diem perdidi."

""A day for Gods to stoop," * * * ay, And men to soar."

"But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me."

"Discipulus est priori posterior dies."