Wake ye, oh! wake thro' the echoing wood,
⁠Sweet birds with songs that are blither than laughter!
Tell us once more how the spring-tide's new blood
⁠Flushes and mantles each dim forest rafter!

Did they not hear you, and know you full well,
⁠They who once wandered thro' Eden's bright bowers?
Knew not the wisest of monarchs your spell,
⁠Oft as ye woke by the temple's fair towers?

Constant your voice as the radiant stars
⁠Shining in beauty far o'er the lone mountain,
Dear to all time as the summer-blue skies,
⁠Fresh as the crystal light thrown from the fountain!

Yes, I can think of the millions of men
⁠List'ning and loving your sweet songs before me.
Ay! and of millions more list'ning again,
⁠When the long grass shall wave silently o'er me.

Blithe little birds! ye are singing to-day
⁠Sweetest of all where our dear dead are sleeping;
There, by the old church walls, timeworn and grey,
⁠Rising thro' bright ivy-wreaths round them creeping,

Over the cold dust that never again
⁠Knoweth a care for the fast-coming morrow;
Lips that are silent, and hearts free from pain,
⁠Eyes that have long closed forever on sorrow.

Well for us all that it rings out so clear,
⁠This your glad song o'er the low graves before us!
Bravely you tell of that spring drawing near
⁠When the dark winter of death shall pass o'er us.

Wake then, oh! wake thro' the echoing wood,
⁠Sweet birds with songs that are blither than laughter!
Wake ye! and sing how the spring-tide's new blood
⁠Flushes and mantles each dim forest rafter!

"The sun bursts out in frequent blaze;
⁠Shade flies, light flashes o'er the wold.
But yet in air there hangs a haze,
⁠And what can make it blow so cold?

"The steeple cock points beak due west;
⁠His tail the other way turns he.
Though that, meseems, is where his crest
⁠In such a breeze as this should be.

"So cold has Christmas seldom been.
⁠It ne'er was colder, e'en in May.
Why does the wind's edge cut so keen?
⁠Turn, pensive shepherd, turn and say."

"Stranger, yon vaporous mountains note,
⁠Cumuli, Alps on Alps, up there!
They're frozen clouds, aloft that float
⁠As icebergs in the sea of air.

"Their rimy crags illumed, how fast
⁠See how they change, and surge, and grow;
Whilst Zephyr apes an eastern blast,
⁠Because the sky is full of snow."

"Thanks, guardian of the fleecy flock.
⁠How rare, how pleasing, 'tis to find
'Mongst rustics reared from lowly stock
⁠A cultured and observant mind!"

"Kind stranger, scant's the laborer's hire
⁠In this inclement atmosphere;
And welcome — pardon the desire —
⁠To his parched lips a draught of beer."

"Nay, shepherd, breathe not that request;
⁠Banish strong drink from downs and plains:
Where Science wears the bumpkin's vest,
⁠Let Temperance rule contented swains."

"In teacup times!" The style of dress
Would suit your beauty, I confess;
⁠Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear;
⁠I picture you with powdered hair, —
You'd make a charming shepherdess!

And I — no doubt — could well express
Sir Plume's complete conceitedness, —
⁠Could poise a clouded cane with care
⁠"In teacup-times!"

The parts would fit precisely — yes:
We should achieve a huge success;
⁠You should disdain, and I despair,
⁠With quite the true Augustan air;
But … could I love you more, or less,
⁠"In teacup-times?"