Where are the echoes that bore the strains
Each to his nearest neighbour:
And all the valleys and all the plains
Where all the nymphs and their love-sick swains
Made merry to pipe and tabor?
Where are they gone? They are gone to sleep
Where Fancy alone can find them:
But Arcady's times are like the sheep
That quitted the care of Little Bo-Peep,
For they've left their tales behind them!