On the Rhine

William Lisle Bowles (1762–1850)

’T WAS morn, and beautiful the mountain’s brow—

Hung with the clusters of the bending vine—

Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine

We sailed and heard the waters round the prow

In murmurs parting; varying as we go,

Rocks after rocks come forward and retire,

As some gray convent wall or sunlit spire

Starts up along the banks, unfolding slow.

Here castles, like the prisons of despair,

Frown as we pass;—there, on the vineyard’s side,

The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide;

While Grief, forgetful amid scenes so fair,

Counts not the hours of a long summer’s day,

Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.