Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922.
Echo
Let echo, too, perform her part,
Prolonging every note with art;
And in a low expiring strain,
Play all the comfort o’er again.
Addison—Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day.
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair
“Where is my child?”—An echo answers—“Where?”
Byron—Bride 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 Rogers—Pleasures of Memory. Pt. I.
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.
Barry Cornwall—English 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 Eliot—The Spanish Gypsy. Bk. IV. L. 149.
Echo waits with art and care
And will the faults of song repair.
Emerson—May-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.
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.
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.
Moore—Echo.
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Pope—Eloisa 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. Saxe—The Story of Echo.
The babbling echo mocks the hounds,
Replying shrilly to the well-tun’d 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.
Shelley—Adonais. 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.
Swift—An Echo.
I heard***
***the great echo flap
And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff.
Tennyson—Golden Year. L. 75.
And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke
From the red-ribb’d hollow behind the wood,
And thunder’d up into Heaven.
Tennyson—Maud. 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.
Tennyson—Princess. 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 Tennyson—Isles of Greece. Apollo. L. 367.
Like—but oh! how different!
Wordsworth—Yes, it Was the Mountain Echo.
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world’s applause.
Young—Night Thoughts. Night IX.