作者：Washington Irving 字数：15.4万字

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. A royal poet. Though your body be confin'd, 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, round 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...

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