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Poem by William Wordsworth
Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Inglewood Forest THE FOREST huge of ancient Caledon Is but a name; nor 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 oТ the Clough, were they alive again, To kill for merry feast their venison. Nor wants the holy abbotТs gliding shade His church with monumental wreck bestrewn; 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.
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