Note 350 — Chapter III · INTELLECTUAL INFLUENCE
George Herbert Ely translation
The day thy sail dipped to the dancing brine, And from our streaming eyes robbed sight of thine, That fatal bark bore far from weeping France The Muses erst who dwelt there—sad mischance! And now Parnassus thrums a tuneless lyre, And Helicon distils an ooze of mire; Our laurel is all parched, our ivy sere, Our song-birds stint their singing—thou not here!