Echo.

Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!
Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love;
Or teach my Delia in thine art divine,
Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine!

John Carr

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John Carr

Sonnet Upon A Swedish Cottage, Written On The Road, Within A Few Miles Of Stockholm.

John Carr, Simple Poetry

Yarrimore.

John Carr, Simple Poetry

Lines To Miss E. Atkinson, On Her Presenting The Author With An Irish Pebble.

John Carr, Simple Poetry

Song.

John Carr, Simple Poetry

English

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Echo-Song

I

Who can say where Echo dwells?
In some mountain-cave, methinks,
Where the white owl sits and blinks;
Or in deep sequestered dells,
Where the foxglove hangs its bells,
Echo dwells.
Echo!
Echo!


II

Phantom of the crystal Air,
Daughter of sweet Mystery!
Here is one has need of thee;
Lead him to thy secret lair,
Myrtle brings he for thy hair--
Hear his prayer,
Echo!
Echo!


III

Echo, lift thy drowsy head,
And repeat each charmed word
Thou must needs have overheard
Yestere'en ere, rosy-red,
Daphne down the valley fled--
Words unsaid,
Echo!
Echo!


IV

Breathe the vows she since denies!
She hath broken every vow;
What she would she would not ...

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

In Devonshire.

Tell me, thou grotto! o'er whose brow are seen
Projecting plumes, and shades of deep'ning green, -
While not a sound disturbs thy stony hall,
While all thy dewy drops forget to fall, -
Why canst thou not thy soothing charms impart,
And shed thy quiet o'er this beating heart?
Tell me, thou richly-painted river! tell,
That on thy mirror'd plane dost mimic well
Each pendent tree and every distant hill,
Tipp'd with red lustre, beauteous, bright, and still, -

Can I not, gazing on thy tranquil tide,
Shed ev'ry grief upon thy rocky side?
Or must I rove thy margin, calm and clear,
The only agitated object near?
Oh! tell me, too, thou babbling cold cascade!
Whose waters, falling thro' successive shade,
Unspangled by the brightness of the sky,
Awake each echo...

John Carr

Sonnet.

The leaves are flutter'd by no tell-tale gales,
Clear melts the azure in the rosy west,
Scarce heard, the river winds along the vales,
And Eve has lull'd the vocal grove to rest.

To yon thick elms, my Delia! let us rove,
As slow the glories of the day retire;
There to thy lute breathe dulcet notes of love,
While thro' the vale they linger and expire.

Those honey'd tones, that melt upon the tongue, -
Thy looks, serener than the scenes I sing, -
Thy chaste desires, which angels might have sung,
Alone can quiet in this bosom bring,
Which burns for thee, and, kindled by thine eyes,
Bears a pure flame - the flame that never dies!

John Carr

A Song.

These shades were made for Love alone, -
Here only smiles and kisses sweet
Shall play around his flow'ry throne,
And doves shall sentinel the seat.

Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day;
It bids us to his bow'r repair: -
"But what will little Cupid say?" -
"Say! sweet? - why, give a welcome there."

There not a tell-tale beam shall peep
Upon thy beauty's rich display, -
There not a breeze shall dare to sweep
The leaves, to whisper what we say.

John Carr

Echo.

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.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
    And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,
    The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
    And only then,--
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
    Breathed back again!

Thomas Moore

Lines[A] Written In A Beautiful Spot, The Favourite Retreat Of Delia.

Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear,
Where Delia's charms renew'd appear,
Ye flow'rs that touch'd her snowy breast,
Ye trees whereon she lov'd to rest,
Ye scenes adorn'd where'er she flies,
If grief shall close these woe-worn eyes,
May some kind form, with hand benign,
My body with this earth enshrine,
That, when the fairest nymph shall deign
To visit this delightful plain,
That, when she views my silent shade,
And marks the change her love has made,
The tear may tremble down her face,
As show'rs the lily's leaves embrace;
Then, like the infant at the breast,
That feels a sorrow unexprest,
That pang shall gentle Delia know,
And silent treasure up her woe.

John Carr