Windsor Castle loses a great deal of its architectural impression (if I
may use that word) by the smooth neatness with which its old towers are
now chiselled and mortared. It looks as if it was washed every morning
with _soap and water_, instead of exhibiting here and there a straggling
flower, or creeping weather-stains. I believe this circumstance strikes
every beholder; but most imposing, indeed, is its distant view, when the
broad banner floats or sleeps in the sunshine, amidst the intense blue
of the summer skies, and its picturesque and ancient architectural
vastness harmonizes with the decaying and gnarled oaks, coeval with so
many departed monarchs. The stately, long-extended avenue, and the wild
sweep of devious forests, connected with the eventful circumstances of
English history, and past regular grandeur, bring back the memory of
Edwards and Henries, or the gallant and accomplished Surrey.

_On Windsor Castle, written 1825, not by a LAUREATE, but a poet of
loyal, old Church-of-England feelings._[8]

Not that thy name, illustrious dome, recalls
The pomp of chivalry in banner'd halls;
The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights
Of heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights;
Not that young Surrey here beguiled the hour,
"With eyes upturn'd unto the maiden's tower;"[9]

Oh! not for these, and pageants pass'd away,
gaze upon your antique towers and pray--
But that my SOVEREIGN here, from crowds withdrawn,
May meet calm peace upon the twilight lawn;
That here, among these gray, primaeval trees,
He may inhale health's animating breeze;