* * *
Bed at Ostend at 5 A.M.
Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30.
Tickets to Königswinter (mem.
The seats objectionably dirty).
And onward through those dreary flats
We move, with scanty space to sit on,
Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats,
And waists that paralyse a Briton;—
By many a tidy little town,
Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting;
(The men’s pursuits are, lying down,
Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)
And doze, and execrate the heat,
And wonder how far off Cologne is,
And if we shall get aught to eat,
Till we get there, save raw polonies:
Until at last the “grey old pile”
Is seen, is past, and three hours later
We’re ordering steaks, and talking vile
Mock-German to an Austrian waiter.
* * *
Königswinter, hateful Königswinter!
Burying-place of all I loved so well!
Never did the most extensive printer
Print a tale so dark as thou could’st tell!
In the sapphire West the eve yet lingered,
Bathed in kindly light those hill-tops cold;
Fringed each cloud, and, stooping rosy-fingered,
Changed Rhine’s waters into molten gold;—
While still nearer did his light waves splinter
Into silvery shafts the streaming light;
And I said I loved thee, Königswinter,
For the glory that was thine that night.