That from thy cold home in the snow

Trippest so merrily,

As if in eager haste of love

To plight thy fealty;

Thy handmaids are the little streams,
That to thee flock and throng,

Each with her own small dower of vines,
Each with her special song;

Each like a vein of blood, the more
To make thee stark and strong.

Fair daughter of the crownéd Alps
In aspiration bold,

No frost can bind thy fervent flood,
That never doth grow old,
Unchecked by summer's golden fire,
Or by fierce winter's cold.

O special favorite of God,
Eternal beauty cling

Around thy banks; let all thy vines

Together praise and sing,

And o'er thee angels bend and pause
With sheathed and reverent wing.

Sweet river! where the laughing hills
Thy majesty do greet,

And echoes call from rock to rock,
All through the noonday heat.
In earliest dusk the gathering stars
Above thee love to meet

When lovers in the ferry-boat
Forget the passing tide,

And, closer drawn, cling lip to lip,
What though the river's wide,
And silver clouds no secrets tell
To the towers on either side;

When church-bells o'er the water speak
Of God unto the hill,

Where ruined castles on the cliff

Speak of God's anger still,

How strong his arm, how swift his shaft,

Who may resist his will?

Yes, here upon this haunted Rhine
My kingdom I will found,
No spectre knight, or goblins blue,
My purpose shall confound;

I'll bring the Golden Age again

To this old feudal ground.

Walter Thornbury.

I

RHINELAND.

LOVE that deep, dark river,
The swiftly flowing Rhine;

I love it for its legends,

I love it for its wine;

I love it for its maidens
With neatly plaited hair,

And merry sparkling lovelit eyes
That seem to laugh at care.

I love it for its forests

Of firs and silver pines,

Its mountains crowned with ruins,
Its richly laden vines.

I love it for its true hearts
United in one band,

The band of love and brotherhood

That rules the Fatherland.

George Browning.

'T

ON THE RHINE.

WAS morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the blushes of the bending vine) Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted; varying as we go, Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire; Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire Mid the bright landscape's tract unfolding slow. Here dark with furrowed aspect, like despair, Hangs the bleak cliff, there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst Hope, enchanted with a scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

William Lisle Bowles.

THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE.

EETLING walls with ivy grown,

Frowning heights of mossy stone; Turret, with its flaunting flag Flung from battlemented crag; Dungeon-keep and fortalice Looking down a precipice O'er the darkly glancing wave By the Lurline-haunted cave; Robber haunt and maiden bower, Home of love and crime and power, That's the scenery, in fine, Of the Legends of the Rhine.

One bold baron, double-dyed
Bigamist and parricide,

And, as most the stories run,
Partner of the Evil One;
Injured innocence in white,
Fair but idiotic quite,
Wringing of her lily hands;
Valor fresh from Paynim lands,

Abbot ruddy, hermit pale,

Minstrel fraught with many a tale, -
Are the actors that combine
In the Legends of the Rhine.

Bell-mouthed flagons round a board; Suits of armor, shield, and sword;

Kerchief with its bloody stain ;
Ghosts of the untimely slain;
Thunder-clap and clanking chain ;
Headsman's block and shining axe;
Thumbscrews, crucifixes, racks;
Midnight-tolling chapel bell,
Heard across the gloomy fell,
These, and other pleasant facts,
Are the properties that shine
In the Legends of the Rhine.

That Virtue always meets reward,
But quicker when it wears a sword;
That Providence has special care
Of gallant knight and lady fair;
That villains, as a thing of course,
Are always haunted by remorse,
Is the moral, I opine,

Of the Legends of the Rhine.

Bret Harte.