Short time went by from that dread hour
Of manifested wrath and power,
Ere from the cliff a little shrine
Looked down upon the rolling Rhine.
Duly the virgin Priestess there
Led day by day the hymn and prayer;
And the dark heathen round her pressed
To know their Maker, and be blessed.
L’Envoi.
To the Countess Von C——, Bonn.
I.
This the Legend of the Drachenfels—
Sweet theme, most feebly sung; and yet to me
My feeble song is grateful; for it tells
Of far-off smiles and voices. Though it be
Unmeet, fair Lady, for thy breast or bower,
Yet thou wilt wear, for thou didst plant the flower.
II.
It had been worthier of such birth and death
If it had bloomed where thou didst watch its rise,
Framed by the zephyr of the fragrant breath,
Warmed by the sunshine of thy gentle eyes,
And cherished by the love, in whose pure shade
No evil thing can live, no good thing fade.
III.
It will be long ere thou wilt shed again
Thy praise or censure on my childish lays—
Thy praise, which makes me happy more than vain,
Thy censure, kinder than another’s praise.
Huge mountains frown between us, and the swell
Of the loud sea is mocking my farewell.
IV.
Yet not the less, dear Friend, thy guiding light
Shines through the secret chambers of my thought;
Or when I waken, with revived delight,
The lute young Fancy to my cradle brought,
Or when I visit with a studious brow
The less-loved task, to which I turn me now.