At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon
found that the library was a kind of literary "preserve," subject
to game-laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there without
special license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate
retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors let loose
upon me.
A ROYAL POET.
Though your body be confined
And soft love a prisoner bound,
Yet the beauty of your mind
Neither check nor chain hath found.
Look out nobly, then, and dare
Even the fetters that you wear.
FLETCHER.
ON a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May I made an
excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and
poetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud old
pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular
walls and massive towers, like a mural crown around the brow of a
lofty ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down
with a lordly air upon the surrounding world.
On this morning, the weather was of that voluptuous vernal kind
which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's temperament,
filling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote poetry
and dream of beauty.
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