tain brow,

No broken temples, fain at length to bow, Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of time.

Not these o'er thee their mystic splendours throw,

Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme, As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime.

But thou art sternly artless, wildly free: We worship thee for beauties all thine

own:

Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be

Admired, but only for herself alone. With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown,

No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise, Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies.

true and bright.

THE RHINE.

Он come, gentle pilgrim,
From far distant strand,
Come, gaze on the pride

Of the old German land.
On that wonder of nature,

That vision divine

Of the past and the present,
The exquisite Rhine.
As soft as a smile,

And as sweet as a song,
Its famous old billows

Roll murm'ring along.
From its source on the mount,
Whence it flies in the sea,

It flashes with beauty

As bright as can be. With the azure of heaven,

Its first waters flow,
And it leaps like an arrow

Escaped from a bow;
While reflecting the glories
Its hill-sides that crown,
It then sweeps in grandeur
By castle and town.
And when, from the red

Gleaming tow'rs of Mayence, Enchanted thou'rt borne

In bewildering trance,
By death-breathing ruin,

By life-giving wine-
By thy dark-frowning turrets,

Old Ehrenbreitstein!
To where the half magic

Cathedral looks down On the crowds at its base,

Of the ancient Cologne, While in rapture thy dazzled

And wondering eyes Scarce follow the pictures,

As bright, as they rise, As the dreams of thy youth, Which thou vainly wouldst stay, But they float, from thy longings, Like shadows away.

Thou wilt find on the banks

Of the wonderful stream,

Full many a spot

That an Eden doth seem.
And thy bosom will ache
With a secret despair,
That thou canst not inhabit
A landscape so fair,
And fain thou wouldst linger
Eternity there.

THE WARNING.

WHEN the days of thy life Have a joy so complete, Contentment so perfect,

And rapture so sweet, Then tremble, O mortal!

For oft they are given By the Dark One of Earth

But to lure thee from heav'n.
In the world of pure spirits

Awaits thee such bliss,
But the rash hand may perish
That grasps it in this.
Oh listen! oh listen!

Thy mettlesome steed
Neighs high in the stall.

He will bear thee with speed. Back! back! for a danger

Thy foot-path hangs o'er. Fly! fly! or we leave thee,

And warn thee no more. Oh listen! oh listen!"