I.

RUDE was the pile, and massy proof, That first uprear’d its haughty roof On Windsor’s brow sublime, in warlike state; The Norman tyrant’s jealous hand The giant fabric proudly plann’d; With recent victory elate, “On this majestic steep,” he cried, “A regal fortress, threatening wide, Shall spread my terrors to the distant hills, Its formidable shade shall throw Far o’er the broad expanse below, Where winds yon mighty flood, and amply fills With flow’ry verdure, or with golden grain, The fairest fields that deck my new domain, And London’s Towers that reach the watchman’s eye Shall see with conscious awe my bulwarks climb the sky.”