THE forest huge of ancient Caledon Is but a name, no more is Inglewood, That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood: On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone; Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none, Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again, To kill for merry feast their venison. Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade His church with monumental wreck bestrown; The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid, Hath still his castle, though a skeleton, That he may watch by night, and lessons con Of power that perishes, and rights that fade. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIS PERSONAE by ROBERT BROWNING THE FARM CHILD'S LULLABY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN by DAVID MACBETH MOIR HENRY WARD BEECHER by CHARLES HENRY PHELPS CAN YOU HEAR IT? by THERESA DRULEY BLACK |