"St. Goar" [poem]
PAST a rock with frowning front,
Wrinkled by the tempestʼs brunt,
By the Rhine we downward bore
Upon the village of St. Goar.
Bosomed deep among the hills,
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Here old Rhine his current stills,
Loitering the banks between,
As if, enamoured of the scene,
He had forgot his onward way
For a live‐long summer day.
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Grim the crags through whose dark cleft,
Behind, he hath a passage reft;
While, gaunt as gorge of hunted boar,
Dark yawns the foaming pass before,
Where the tormented waters rage,
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Like demons in their Stygian cage,
In giddy eddies whirling round
With a sullen choking sound; 1
Or flinging far the scattering spray,
Oʼer the peaked rocks that bar his way.
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—No marvel that the spell‐bound Rhine,
Like giant overcome with wine,
Should here relax his angry frown,
And, soothed to slumber, lay him down
Amid the vine‐clad banks, that lave
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Their tresses in his placid wave.