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,
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.
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,
Like demons in their Stygian cage, In giddy eddies whirling round With a sullen choking sound;
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Or flinging far the scattering spray, Oʼer the peaked rocks that bar his way.
—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