BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view, The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU; Erst a religious House, which day and night With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite: And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth To honourable Men of various worth: There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child; There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks; Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined stage. Communities are lost, and Empires die, And things of holy use unhallowed lie; They perish; -- but the Intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ANGLER'S SONG by WILLIAM BASSE SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 28 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE JOYS OF THE ROAD by BLISS CARMAN REMINDER by INDRAN AMIRTHANAYAGAM DIVIDED by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE JOHN MASEFIELD by AMY SHERMAN BRIDGMAN |