It was morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow
(Hung with the clusters of the bending vine)
Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine
We bounded, and the white waves round the prow
In murmurs parted;--varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open and the rocks retire,
As some grey convent-wall or glistening spire
Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow!
Here, dark with furrowed aspect, like despair
Frowns the bleak cliff! There, on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its gleaming tide;
Whilst hope, enchanted with the scene so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.