OLD WINDSOR.

The sequestered scenes,

The bowery mazes and surrounding greens,
On Thames' banks while fragrant breezes fill,
And where the muses sport on Cooper's Hill.

On Cooper's Hill, eternal wreaths shall grow,
While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall flow!
Here his first lays majestic Denham sung-

РОРЕ.

OLD Windsor is one of those interesting places in this neighbourhood which calls for some notice. Cooper's Hill with its terraces and lawns, and shady walks, and its thick groves of trees, are seen at a short distance. Here Denham wrote his "Cooper's Hill," a poem which we have seen was praised by Pope, and also by Johnson. The view from that place is extremely beautiful, and the windings of the river Thames in the valley below the hill, must add greatly to the charm of the scenery. Denham thus describes it

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys
Where Thames among the wanton vallies strays,
Thames the most lov'd of all the ocean's sons.

And then he exclaims—

O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!

Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.

No one, indeed, can see the fine bends of the river near Ankerwyke, or view its reedy and willowy banks and islets from the Bells of Ouseley, without being struck with the beauty of the stream, adorned as it generally is at those places by numerous swans.

Runnymede, also, recals many historical recollections, and the pretty fishing cottage belonging to the owner of Ankerwyke, on the banks of the river, is a place of great resort in the summer. In a book kept in the cottage, are many poetical effusions by visitors, as if the muse of Cooper's Hill still hovered round the spot.

The church of Old Windsor is situate near the banks of the Thames, and is surrounded by trees and well-kept residences, among which is the parsonage, conspicuous for its cheerful and pleasing aspect. The whole space, indeed, around the church, has a peculiarly quiet and retired appearance, contrasting greatly and unexpectedly with the surrounding neighbourhood by its quiet beauty. There is a noble yew tree in the churchyard which spreads its branches far and wide, and one monument in particular which it is impossible to approach without feelings of the deepest interest. It is that of the unfortunate Mary Robinson, known also as " Perdita," a name

so appropriate to her lost, desolate, and miserable condition in this life.

She married at the early age of sixteen a man who appeared to be equally incapable of appreciating either her beauty or her talents, and from whose neglect and profligacy she went upon the stage, and appeared in the interesting character of Perdita in the Winter's Tale. Her little story of misery which was known - her beauty, and the pathos of her acting, occasioned her to be received with rapturous applause. Among the delighted audience was the heir apparent to the throne of England. He induced her to consent to live with him, but it was only for a short time. Miserable in mind, and sick in body, she retired to the neighbourhood of Old Windsor, on a small pension. Here she lost the use of her limbs, and died at the early age of forty-three. Her poems and her other literary works are an epitome of her mind, sad, melancholy, and desponding. In reading them, it is impossible not to feel a great degree of tenderness and pity for one whose beauty was adorned by so much talent, and whose misfortunes were occasioned by the vice and profligacy of man. Naturally of an open and confiding disposition, she trusted those she loved, and thus fell an easy prey to promises which were never fulfilled, and to vows only made to be broken.

The following is a copy of the inscription on the

south-side of the tomb, written by Mr. Pratt, the gleaner, who with many eccentricities (when I knew him) had a heart capable of feeling for the misfortunes of others.

Of beauty's isle, her daughters must declare,
She who sleeps here was fairest of the fair.
But, ah! while nature on her favourite smiled,
And genius claimed his share of beauty's child,
E'en as they wove a garland for her brow,
Sorrow prepar'd a willowy wreath of woe;
Mix'd lurid night-shade with the buds of May,
And turned the darkest cypress, with the bay
In mildew-tears steep'd every opening flower,
Prey'd on the sweets, and gave the canker power.
Yet, O! may pity's angel, from the grave
The early victim of misfortune save;
And as she springs to everlasting morn,

May glory's fadeless crown her soul adorn.

In this interesting church-yard, the remains of the second wife of the Right Honorable Richard Brinsley Sheridan are interred, and those of her only child, the late Charles Sheridan, Esq. one of the most amiable, kind-hearted men I ever knew.

The late Landgravine of Hesse Homburg (the Princess Elizabeth) had a pretty cottage near the church, which she decorated with much good taste, and in which she took great delight. It is a curious fact in the history of the human mind, that those who are born to wealth and greatness,

frequently envy the inhabitants of a humble cottage, and think how much happiness they could enjoy in it; while, on the contrary, the owner of the cottage envies those who possess riches and luxuries of which he cannot partake. The good and amiable Princess, I have just referred to, was once heard to say that she never met an honest, worthy couple, driving about the country in their gig, without envying the happiness they appeared to enjoy. In her estimation, it was the summum bonum of earthly pleasure, and which she herself could never partake of.