Sweet Echo! sleeps thy vocal shell,
Where this high arch o'erhangs the dell;
While Tweed, with sun-reflecting streams,
Chequers thy rocks with dancing beams?

Here may no clamours harsh intrude,
No brawling hound or clarion rude;
Here no fell beast of midnight prowl
And teach thy tortured cliffs to howl.

Be thine to pour these vales along
Some artless shepherd's evening song;
While night's sweet bird from yon high spray
Responsive listens to his lay.

And if, like me, some love-lorn maid
Should sing her sorrows to thy shade,
Oh! sooth her breast, ye rocks around,
With softest sympathy of sound.