Sonnet VII. Whither is Gone the Wisdom and the Power

Whither is gone the wisdom and the powerThat ancient sages scatter'd with the notesOf thought-suggesting lyres? The music floatsIn the void air; e'en at this breathing hour,In every cell and every blooming bowerThe sweetness of old lays is hovering still:But the strong soul, the self-constraining will,The rugged root that bare the winsome flowerIs weak and wither'd. Were we like the FaysThat sweetly nestle in the fox-glove bells,Or lurk and murmur in the rose-lipp'd shellsWhich Neptune to the earth for quit-rent pays,Then might our pretty modern PhilomelsSustain our spirits with their roundelays.