Penryn Castle Poem by Frederick William Faber

Stranger! if thou hast mourned o'er wasting shrine,
And costly churches falling to decay,
Then will thy blameless anger rise like mine,
Cast for an hour 'mid this unblest display.
Damask and gold and colored timbers rare
And churchlike carvings soothe the owner's sense;
Yet hath no famous line been cradled here
With names to hallow such magnificence.
Poor England lay before that rich man's gates,
Like Lazarus; but he reared halls wherein
To shrine himself and worship modern sin,
Where modern praise the sumptuous crime awaits.
Come forth, come forth, and breathe all fresh and free
The winds that blend from mountain-height and sea!