AWAKE, ye Nymphs of Avon's stream,
Of Shakspeare's verse the fav'rite theme;
No more within that sparry cave,
Whose mouth Avonia's waters lave;
On coral beds in grief recline,
But round your brows the laurel twine;
Again by Cynthia's pallid beam,
Be seen amid the glassy stream;
O chaunt again that Doric strain,
Ye learn'd of Avon's tuneful swain;
And with you bring the breathing lute,
For ages lost, for ages mute,
That Genius erst on him bestow'd,
Whose pictur'd breast with fancy glow'd;
For wak'd by notes that oft have charm'd,
Again by hallow'd frenzy warm'd.