| |
| O FOR a kingdom rocky throned | |
| Above the brimming Rhine! | |
| With vassals who should pay their toll | |
| In many sorts of wine; | |
| Above me naught but the blue air, | 5 |
| And all below the vine. | |
| |
| I ’d plant my throne where legends say, | |
| In nights of harvest-time, | |
| King Charlemagne, in golden robe | |
| (So runs the rustic rhyme), | 10 |
| Doth come to bless the mellowing crops, | |
| While the bells of heaven chime, | |
| |
| (Children have heard them!) and a bridge | |
| Of gold leaps o’er the stream | |
| For the king to cross. A maiden once | 15 |
| Saw its bright arches gleam; | |
| The priests they burnt her for that sight, | |
| Calling it “Satan’s Dream.” | |
| |
| Churches should in my valleys hide, | |
| Old towers rise on each hill; | 20 |
| The forge, the farm-house, and the inn | |
| Should cluster round the mill, | |
| And past them all the river broad | |
| Would flow at its own sweet will. | |
| |
| My stream at noon of fairy gold | 25 |
| Should crimson turn ere night, | |
| Then by the magic of the moon | |
| Change to quicksilver bright. | |
| At dawn each little wave should be | |
| Mantled with purple light. | 30 |
| |
| I ’d dwell where Charlemagne looked down, | |
| And, turning to his peers, | |
| Exclaimed, “Behold, for this fair land | |
| I ’ve prayed and fought for years.” | |
| Then all the Rhine towers shook to hear | 35 |
| The earthquake of their cheers. | |
| |
| That day the tide ran crimson red | |
| (But not with Rhenish wine); | |
| Not with those vintage streams that through | |
| The green leaves gush and shine; | 40 |
| ’T was blood that from the Lombard ranks | |
| Rushed down into the Rhine. | |
| |
| ’T was here the German soldiers flocked, | |
| Burning with love and pride, | |
| And threw their muskets down to kiss | 45 |
| The soil with French blood dyed. | |
| “The Rhine, dear Rhine!” ten thousand men, | |
| Kneeling together, cried. | |
| |
| O, fairest of the many brides | |
| Wedded to Father Sea, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| 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, | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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 | 85 |
| 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? | 90 |
| |
| 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 | 95 |
| To this old feudal ground. | |
| |
