ECHO , wild elf,
Who in deep hermit-glen,
Where through o'er-foliag'd cleft the brooklet steals,
A sylvan life dost lead!

Or in high dome,
Symphonious with thEchoir,
From thy calm realm wide arching overhead,
Answerest in angel-strains!

Thee in some grot,
Far down primeval time,
From noise of heaving chaos deep retir'd,
Did Silence bring to birth;

There nurs'd thee up
Beneath a radiant roof,
Where sparkled thick innumerable gems,
The storehouse of a world!

Whence still thy voice,
Most heard in lonely scenes,
Flies from the common haunt, from business rude,
And the coarse hum of men.

O, that with thee
I, too, apart might dwell;
Nor to the traffic of the world consign'd,
Invert the ends of life!