An Englishman to a Castle

They pointed out the castle on the hill
And said that it was beautiful, in faith.
And beautiful it is. It makes me ill,
This ghost of ancient miseries, the wraith
Of former wrongs, stuck up for all to see,
As if a sufferer from an old disease
Should be preserved in pickle for the glee
Of curious visitors from overseas.
My ancestors spent several hundred years
Pulling that castle down. Their ways were rough;
They pulled it down about its owners’ ears,
But did not, in my view, pull hard enough.
Some stones, as you can see, are standing still.
Sometimes, I must confess, I am inclined
To finish off that castle on the hill,
And other castles that I have in mind.