he preserve

This forest used to be the royal hunting preserve of Henry the Eighth, home to legendary outlaws, but rights and privileges are impossible to preserve. The castle is in ruins; the church has no pews.

Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Inglewood Forest

— by William Wordsworth

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.