Winding slow in many a crook,
By the rustling of the trees,
By the humming of the bees,
By the woodlark, by the thrush,
Wildly warbling from the bush,
By the fairy’s shadowy tread
O’er the cowslip’s dewy head,
Father, monarch of the stage,
Glory of Eliza’s age,
Shakespeare! deign to lend thy face,