Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir 1826.pdf/14



He hath reached a mountain hung with vine, And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine; The feudal towers that crest its height Frown in unconquerable might; Dark is their aspect of sullen state, No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, At the chieftain's board a welcome guest; Vainly rich evening's parting smile Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, Like a thunder-cloud in a summer-sky.

Not these the halls where a child of song Awhile may speed the hours along; Their echoes should repeat alone The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast, When his phantom-train are hurrying past. The weary minstrel paused—his eye Roved o'er the scene despondingly: Within the lengthening shadow, cast By the fortress, towers and ramparts vast, Lingering he gazed—the rocks around Sublime in savage grandeur frowned; Proud guardians of the regal flood, In giant strength the mountains stood; By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven.