Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WRITTEN ON THE RHINE, by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WRITTEN ON THE RHINE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Swiftly we sail along thy stream
Last Line: Doze down the summer hours.
Subject(s): Rhine (river), Europe


Swiftly we sail along thy stream,
War-stricken Rhine! and evening's gleam
Shows us, throughout its course,
The gaping scars (on either side,
On every cliff) of guilty pride
And unavailing force.

Numberless castles here have frown'd,
And cities numberless, spire-crown'd,
Have fixt their rocky throne;
Dungeons too deep and towers too high
Ever for Love to hear the sigh
Or Law avenge the groan.

And, falser and more violent
Than fraudful War, Religion lent
Her scourge to quell the heart;
Striking her palsy into Youth,
And telling Innocence that Truth
Is God's, and they must part.

Hence victim crowns and iron vows,
Binding ten thousand to one spouse,
To keep them all from sin!
Hence, for light dance and merry tale,
The cloister's deep and stifling veil,
That shuts the world within.

Away! away! thou foulest pest
That ever broke man's inner rest,
Pouring the poison'd lie
How to thy dragon grasp is given
The power of Earth, the price of Heaven!
Go! let us live and die

Without thy curse upon our head,
Monster! with human sorrows fed,
Lo! here thy image stands.
In Heidelberg's lone chambers, Rhine
Shows what his ancient Palatine
Received from thy meek hands!

France! claim thy right, thy glory claim,
Surpassing Rome's immortal fame!
For, more than she could do
In the long ages of her toils,
With all her strength and all her spoils,
Thy heroes overthrew.

Crow, crow thy cock! thy eagle soar,
Fiercer and higher than before!
Thy boasts though few believe,
Here faithful history shall relate
What Gallic hearts could meditate
And Gallic hands achieve.

Fresh blows the gale, the scenes delight,
Anear, afar, on plain, on hight;
But all are far and vast:
Day follows day, and shows not one
The weary heart could rest upon
To call its own at last.

No curling dell, no cranky nook,
No sylvan mead, no prattling brook,
No little lake that stands
Afraid to lift its fringed eye
Of purest blue to its own sky,
Or kiss its own soft sands.

O! would I were again at home
(If any such be mine) to roam
Amid Lanthony's bowers,
Or, where beneath the alders flow
My Arrow's waters still and slow,
Doze down the summer hours.





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