WE past a rock, whose bare front ever Had borne the brunt of wind and weather;
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And downwards by the Rhine we bore Upon the village of St. Goar, That, ʼmid the hills embosomed, lay
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.
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,
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,—
Wave upon wave at random tossed Or in the giddy whirlpool lost,
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And now are undisturbed sleeping,— No more on rocks those billows beating But, lightly laughing, laps the tide,