O ever gracious Airs from Arcady!
What lack is there of any jocund thing
In glancing wit or glad imagining
Capricious fancy may not find in thee?—
The laugh of Momus, tempered daintily
To lull the ear and lure its listening;
The whistled syllables the birds of spring
Flaunt ever at our guessings what they be;
The wood, the seashore, and the clanging town;
The pets of fashion, and the ways of such;
The robe de chambre, and the russet gown;
The lordling's carriage, and the pilgrim's crutch—
From hale old Chaucer's wholesomeness, clean down
To our artistic Dobson's deftest touch!