["St. Goar"] [poem]
We a past a rock, whose bare front ever, b
Had borne the brunt of wind, & weather, 1
And downwards by the Rhine we bore,
Upon the village of St Goar,
That, mid the hills embosomed lay,
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Where the Rhine checked his onward way,
And lay the mighty crags between,
As if, enamoured of the scene,
He loved not on his way to wind,
And leave a scene so fair behind
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For grim the chasm, through whose cleft,
The waters had a passage reft,
And gaunt the gorge that yawned before
Through which, emerging, they must roar,
No marvel they should love to rest,
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And peaceful spread their placid breast,
Before, in fury driving dread,
Tormented on their rocky bed,
Or flinging far their scattering spray,
Oʼer the peaked rocks that barred their way,
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Wave upon wave at random tossed,
Or in the giddy whirlpool lost, 2
And now are undisturbed sleeping,
No more on rocks those billows beating,
But lightly laughing laps the tide,
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Where stoop the vineyards to his side.