FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON

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, whichday 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 shookthe 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.