BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, <br />Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground <br />Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view, <br />The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU; <br />Erst a religious House, which day and night <br />With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite: <br />And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth <br />To honourable Men of various worth: <br />There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, <br />Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child; <br />There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, <br />Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks; <br />Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, <br />Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams <br />Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, <br />With which his genius shook the buskined stage. <br />Communities are lost, and Empires die, <br />And things of holy use unhallowed lie; <br />They perish;--but the Intellect can raise, <br />From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inscriptions-for-a-seat-in-the-groves-of-coleorton/
