  Thou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile, Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre First breath'd the voice of music on our isle; Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire, Old Chaucer slowly sunk at last to night; Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain, A firmer, nobler monument remain, When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site; And yet the cankering tooth of envious age Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme; Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page, And piercing through the shadowy mist of time, The festive Bard of Edward's court recall, As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall. BION. Vignette
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