Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50
Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: 55
Ay me! I fondly dream!
Had ye been there—for what could that have done
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,