An Echo

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.

Now I am a dog, or cow,

I can bark, or I can low;

I can bleat, or I can sing,

Like the warblers of the spring.

Let the lovesick bard complain,

And I mourn the cruel pain;

Let the happy swain rejoice,

And I join my helping voice:

Both are welcome, grief or joy,

I with either sport and toy.

Though a lady, I am stout,

Drums and trumpets bring me out:

Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,

Join in all the din of battle.

Jove, with all his loudest thunder,

When I'm vext, can't keep me under;

Yet so tender is my ear,

That the lowest voice I fear;

Much I dread the courtier's fate,

When his merit's out of date,

For I hate a silent breath,

And a whisper is my death.