Classic Poem

The Rhine—the Rhine—beneath me now,
A mighty volume pours,
Its source, the distant mountain's brow,
Its grave the northern shores.
By nations loved, by poets sung,
The noble stream goes by
By crumbling fane and tow'r o'erhung,
And cliffs that charm the eye.
But yet, three thousand miles away,
Some gentle streams there are,
That here, midst all this proud array,
To me are dearer far.

I see them winding through the vales
The Clover's breath perfumes,
Where, fluttering in the summer gales,
The scented Wild Rose blooms;
And where the Elms, with graceful ease,
Their fringed branches droop;
And where the tassell'd Alder trees
To kiss their waters stoop.
While, glittering in the rosy light
At day's serene decline,
They murmur onwards, calm and bright,
Those pleasant streams of mine.

I see them from the mountain gush,
Where wave the ancient woods
O'er rock and steeps impetuous rush,
To blend their sparkling floods.
Now wand'ring through the forest glade,
To sylvan lakes expand;
In every form of beauty made,
To bless the pleasant land.
And, midst the charms that greet me here
Beside the swelling Rhine,
Their voices steal upon my ear,
Those far-off streams of mine.

What through no ruins rise above
My Country's pleasant streams;
Nor legends wild, of war or love,
Invoke the Poet's dreams.
No lawless power can there disturb
The Peasant's tranquil sleep;
No towers, the free-born soul to curb,
Frown o'er each lofty steep—
Then, German, keep your Drachenfels,
Vine-clad and foaming Rhine,
The taint of bondage on them dwells,
Far happier streams are mine.

The Rhine—the Rhine—beneath me now,
A mighty volume pours,
Its source, the distant mountain's brow,
Its grave the northern shores.
By nations loved, by poets sung,
The noble stream goes by
By crumbling fane and tow'r o'erhung,
And cliffs that charm the eye.
But yet, three thousand miles away,
Some gentle streams there are,
That here, midst all this proud array,
To me are dearer far.

I see them winding through the vales
The Clover's breath perfumes,
Where, fluttering in the summer gales,
The scented Wild Rose blooms;
And where the Elms, with graceful ease,
Their fringed branches droop;
And where the tassell'd Alder trees
To kiss their waters stoop.
While, glittering in the rosy light
At day's serene decline,
They murmur onwards, calm and bright,
Those pleasant streams of mine.

I see them from the mountain gush,
Where wave the ancient woods
O'er rock and steeps impetuous rush,
To blend their sparkling floods.
Now wand'ring through the forest glade,
To sylvan lakes expand;
In every form of beauty made,
To bless the pleasant land.
And, midst the charms that greet me here
Beside the swelling Rhine,
Their voices steal upon my ear,
Those far-off streams of mine.

What through no ruins rise above
My Country's pleasant streams;
Nor legends wild, of war or love,
Invoke the Poet's dreams.
No lawless power can there disturb
The Peasant's tranquil sleep;
No towers, the free-born soul to curb,
Frown o'er each lofty steep—
Then, German, keep your Drachenfels,
Vine-clad and foaming Rhine,
The taint of bondage on them dwells,
Far happier streams are mine.