Pipes O' Pan At Zekesbury

The pipes of Pan! Not idler now are they
  Than when their cunning fashioner first blew
  The pith of music from them: Yet for you
  And me their notes are blown in many a way
  Lost in our murmurings for that old day
  That fared so well, without us.--Waken to
  The pipings here at hand:--The clear halloo
  Of truant-voices, and the roundelay
  The waters warble in the solitude
  Of blooming thickets, where the robin's breast
  Sends up such ecstacy o'er dale and dell,
  Each tree top answers, till in all the wood
  There lingers not one squirrel in his nest
  Whetting his hunger on an empty shell.