The Rhine, still fresh and young!
Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!
High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish’d race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass’d, and left no trace.
But thou art there!—serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,