John Leicester Warren, Lord de Tabley - Echoes of Hellas lyrics

O choir of Tempe mute these many years, O fountain lutes of lyric Hippocrene, On whose polluted brink no Muse is seen. No more between the gleaming vales one hears Apollo's footfall or the sobbing tears Of Daphne, budding finger-tips of green. No nymphs are bathing with their huntress Queen In the warm shallows of the mountain meres. Great Pan is dead: he perished long ago: His reedy pipes these uplands never heard. What trembling sounds from yonder coppice come? Some ravished queen, who tells the dale her woe? Nay, since the maids Pierian here are dumb, The nightingale is nothing but a bird.