Fare thee well, thou regal river, proudly-rolling German Rhine, Sung in many a minstrel's ballad, praised in many a poet's line! Thou from me too claim'st a stanza; ere thy oft-trod banks I leave, Blithely, though with thread the slenderest, I the grateful rhyme will weave; Many a native hymn thou hearest, many a nice and subtle tone, Yet receive my stranger lispings, strange, but more than half thine own. Fare thee well! but not in sorrow; while the sun thy vineyards cheers, I will not behold thy glory through a cloud of feeble tears; Bring the purple Walportzheimer, pour the Rudesheimer bright, In the trellis'd vine-clad arbour I will hold a feast to-night. Call the friends who love me dearly, call the men of sense and soul, Call the hearts whose blithe blood billows, like the juice that brims the bowl: Let the wife who loves her husband, with her eyes of gracious blue, Give the guests a fair reception--serve them with a tendance true; With bright wine, bright thoughts be mated; and if creeping tears must be, Let them creep unseen to-morrow, Rhine, when I am far from thee! Lo! where speeds the gallant steamer, prankt with flags of coloured pride, And strong heart of iron, panting stoutly up the swirling tide; While from fife, and flute, and drum, the merry music bravely floats, And afar the frequent cannon rolls his many-pealing notes; And as thick as flowers in June, or armies of the ruddy pine, Crown the deck the festive sailors of the broad and German Rhine. "_Der Rhein! Der Rhein!_" I know the song, the jovial singers too I know,-- 'Tis a troop of roving Burschen, and to Heisterbach they go; There beneath the seven hills' shadow, and the cloister'd ruin grey, Far from dusty books and paper, they will spend the sunny day; There will bind their glittering caps with oaken wreaths fresh from the trees, And around the rustic table sit, as brothers sit, at ease; Hand in hand will sit and laugh, and drain the glass with social speed, Crowned with purple Asmannshausen, drugged with many a fragrant weed; While from broad and open bosom, with a rude and reinless glee, Sounds the jocund-hearted pæan,--_Live the Bursch! the Bursch is free!_ Thus they through the leafy summer, when their weekly work is o'er, Make the wooded hamlets echo with strong music's stirring roar From young life's high-brimming fulness--while the hills that bear the vine Brew their juice in prescient plenty for the Burschen of the Rhine.