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  Yet so tender is my ear,     That the lowest voice I fear;     Much I dread the courtier's fate,     When his merit's out of date,     For I hate a silent breath,     And a whisper is my death.