'Tis a pretty Baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet: Here, for neither Babe or me, Other Play-mate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings, (In the sun or under shade Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, 50 Made this Orchard's narrow space, And this Vale so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in Bands Travell'd into distant Lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood, And, among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, 60 With us openly abide, All have laid their mirth aside, --Where is he that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree, Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out, Hung with head towards the ground, Flutter'd, perch'd; into a round 70 Bound himself, and then unbound; Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin, Prettiest Tumbler ever seen, Light of heart, and light of limb, What is now become of Him? Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sober'd by this time. If you look to vale or hill, 80 If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighbouring Rill; That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitters hill and plain, And the air is calm in vain; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy: 90 Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety?