Phenix Gazette

ALEXANDRIA GAZETTE.

From Tait's Magazine.

SONG OF THE RHENISH PROVINCES.

The Rhine is born in the winter storm,
Upon a bed of snow;
He's suckled by the avalanche,
Dissolv'd in summer's glow;
He's cradled on "the iron ledge
Of Constance' craggy wall,
And rocked to sleep on the roaring sleep
Of wild Schaffhausen's fall.

With such a Sire!—what wonder then
Our maids are fair, our sons are men.

Like a proud conqueror advancing
Triumphantly he rolls
The flood his chariot, and the waves
His steeds of foam, controls,
Before his brow the forests bow,
Attendant on his state,
On either hand, a giant band,
The chain'd mountains wait
Like captive kings—their sentinels
A thousand crested citadels.

Johannisberg and Rudesheim,
With grape-besmeared hand,
All reeking from their fragrant toil,
His proud cupbearers stand;
The tribute of a thousand kirks
He takes with high disdain,
And, borne before his rushing wheels,
He sweeps it to the main.

Such are thy triumphs, Father Rhine!
Who dare to boast such glorious line?

The Suitzer on thy native mountains,
Thine eldest born is he;
He drinks thy first free bubbling fountains,
He drinks, and he is free.

Would that thine after ampler waters,
Descending to the plain,
If such their first ennobling spirit,
Like virtue could retain;
'Tis pity sure thy boundless waves,
Should e'er be soil'd by lips of slave.

Slaves! who are slaves? Bring me my sword!
Have we not fought and bled?
Yes! triumph'd too 'gainst Freedom's foes—
Behold our wounds are red!—
This blade—what drinks it to the hilt?
Life blood—'tis of the Frank—
We rose and broke their yoke accurst.
And gained—that soil'd our rank.
Could it be chains? Say hath our aid
To Freedom's cause been thus repaid!

Rhine, I would pledge thee in a cup
Of thine own native growth;
But my hand trembles as I raise
The goblet to my mouth;—
It seems as if by fetter'd limbs
The wine press had been trod:
To me, at least, it has the taste
Of friend's, of brother's blood,
And broken faith—In such curst wine,
I may not, I dare not, pledge thee, Rhine!

Sweep on, thou dark majestic river:
Ten thousand years the roar
Has swell'd as now; and shall for ever,
Till time shall be no more,
If then the hand that first design'd,
And sent thee on thy course,
In depth of thy sublimity,
Recall thee to thy source,
Thy earthly race of glory run,—
Tell not the deeds thy kings have done.