It was in the courtyard of Goodrich Castle that Wordsworth met the simple child that lightly drew its breath (We are Seven - see the link below).
The poem below, Goodrich Castle, is by Henry Neele, first published in the Literary Souvenir in 1827.
Thou sylvan Wye, since last my feet
Wandered along thy margin sweet,
I've gazed on many a far-famed stream,—
Have seen the Loire's bright waters gleam,
Seen Arveiron from its wild source gush,
The dull Scheldt creep, the swift Rhone rush,
And Arve, the proud Alps' froward child,
Run murmuring through its regions wild.
But none to my delighted eye
Seemed lovelier than my own sweet Wye,
Through meads of living verdure driven,
'Twixt hills that seem earth's links to Heaven;
With sweetest odours breathing round,
With every woodland glory crowned,
And skies of such cerulean hue,
A veil of such transparent blue,
That God's own eye seems gazing through.
And thou, proud Goodrich, changed and worn,
By time and war, and tempest torn,
Still stand'st thou by that lovely stream
Though passed thy glory like a dream;
Stand'st like a monitor, to say
How nature lives 'midst art's decay,
Or, like a spectre, haunting yet
The spot where all its joys were set.
Time hallowed pile! no more, no more
Thou hear'st the hostile cannon roar;
No more bold chiefs thy drawbridge pace
To battle, tournament, or chase;
No more the valiant man thy towers;
No more the lovely grace thy bowers;
Nor bright eyes smile o'er the guitar;
Nor the trump stirs bold hearts to war.
The falling meteor o'er thee shoots;
The dull owl in thy chambers hoots;
Now doth the creeping ivy twine
Where once bloomed rose and eglantine;
And there where once, in rich array,
Met lords, and knights, and ladies gay,
The bat is clinging to the walls,
And the fox nestles in those halls.