St. Goar is the least and sweetest place a
on all the Rhine. There is Godesberg, with
its hilltop crested with ruins, there is
Andernacht with its venerable remains
of antiquity, there is Ehrenbreitstein, upon
whose cliff never traitor stood, looking out,
far away over its rich sea of champaign, yet
there is nothing like St Goar. It has a
lone hill beauty, the little scene around
it, is exceeding small, but it has a mod‐
est secluded loveliness. You look on An‐
dernacht with veneration, on Ehrenbreit‐

stein with awe, but on St. Goar with
love. 1

There is a voice in all nature; List to
the rave of the mad sea; Speaks it not
eloquently, does it not tell of its green,
weedy caverns, and its coral towers, and
and b the high hills and shelly vallies, far,
far beneath its cold blue. 2 List to the
song of the summer breeze, does it not
tell of the blue heavens, and the white
clouds, and other climes, and other sea‐
sons, and spicy gales and myrtle bow‐
ers, and sweet things far away. How
sweetly the Rhine sings at St Goar,
and it tells of the arched grottoes of the
glacier, and the crags of the far Alps, &
how it joys to dash against tall rock
once more.