'The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strew'd a scene which I should see With double joy, wert _thou_ with me. 'And peasant girls with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine-- Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine. 'The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me more dear, Could thy dear eyes, in following mine, Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine.' If misery loves company, as the proverb says, why should not happiness be also sociably disposed? There is to me a special loneliness in being in these regions of song, with a crowd of strangers, but with no 'congenial spirit' who in after days would recall to us the fond recollection of happy hours passed together in the distant land; who with a single word might bring vividly before us a glowing panorama of scenes remembered as a dream. And is there not as much or more enjoyment in these remembrances, than in the 'first impression?' Beside the Drachenfels, there are a score of ruins this side of Coblentz, such as Rolandzeck, Godesberg, and other hard names; and we also passed the pretty town of Bonn, the seat of an ancient and well-endowed university. From one of the castles, near the river, we were saluted with three cheers by the garrison. To-morrow I shall write from Aix-la-Chapelle, for here I must say, albeit not in the Byronic vein, 'Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted The stranger fain would linger on his way; Thine is a scene alike where souls united, Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where nature, not too sombre nor too gay, Wild, but not rude, awful, but not austere, Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.' FOOTNOTES: [1] Flowing in and from the lake. [2] See also 'Anne of Gierstein.' [3] A heap of bones of the vanquished remain to this day on the field. [4] The costume is worn only by the peasantry.