THE BANKS OF RHINE.

And the red and golden vines,
Piercing with their trellised lines.
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing from this hoary tower
In the windless air; the flower
Glimmering at my feet; the line
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine
In the south dimly islanded;

And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun;
And of living things each one;

And my spirit, which so long

Darkened this swift stream of song,
Interpenetrated lie

By the glory of the sky.

SHELLEY.

THE BANKS OF RHINE.

OT everywhere the vine bedecks our border,
As well the mountains show,

That harbour in their bosoms wild disorder;
Not worth their room below.

Thuringia's hills, for instance, are aspiring
To rear a juice like wine;

But that is all-nor mirth nor song inspiring,
It breathes not of the vine.

171

172

GOOD AND EVIL.

And other hills, with buried treasures glowing,

For wine are far too cold;

Though iron ores and cobalt there are growing,

And chance some paltry gold.

The Rhine-the Rhine, there glow the gay plantations;

Oh, hallowed be the Rhine!

Upon his banks are brewed the rich potations

Of this consoling wine.

Drink to the Rhine! and every coming morrow,

Be mirth and music thine!

And when we meet a child of care and sorrow,

We'll send him to the Rhine!

From "Matthias Claudius," translated by LONGfellow.

GOOD AND EVIL.

HE sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare,

And love and freedom blossom but to wither;
And good and ill like vines entangled are,

So that their grapes may oft be plucked together:

Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then make

Thy heart rejoice for dead Mazenghi's sake.

SHELLEY.

H dark, deep, pictured eyes!

Once more I seek your meaning-as the skies

Were sought by wizards, once, from eastern towers,

When signs of fate dawned through the night's bright hours.
O master of my soul, to whom belong

Those starry lights of love! thou dost me wrong,