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.