‘ Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow
( Hung with the clusters of the bending vine )
Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow
In murmurs parted:— varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
As some gray convent-wall or glistening spire
‘ Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow!
Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like Despair,
Frowns the bleak cliff! There on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.