By many a tidy little town, Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting; (The men’s pursuits are, lying down, Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;) And doze, and execrate the heat, And wonder how far off Cologne is, And if we shall get aught to eat, Till we get there, save raw polonies: Until at last the “grey old pile” Is seen, is past, and three hours later We’re ordering steaks, and talking vile Mock-German to an Austrian waiter. * * * Königswinter, hateful Königswinter! Burying-place of all I loved so well! Never did the most extensive printer Print a tale so dark as thou could’st tell! In the sapphire West the eve yet lingered, Bathed in kindly light those hill-tops cold; Fringed each cloud, and, stooping rosy-fingered, Changed Rhine’s waters into molten gold;— While still nearer did his light waves splinter Into silvery shafts the streaming light; And I said I loved thee, Königswinter, For the glory that was thine that night. And we gazed, till slowly disappearing, Like a day-dream, passed the pageant by, And I saw but those lone hills, uprearing Dull dark shapes against a hueless sky. Then I turned, and on those bright hopes pondered Whereof yon gay fancies were the type; And my hand mechanically wandered Towards my left-hand pocket for a pipe. Ah! why starts each eyeball from its socket, As, in Hamlet, start the guilty Queen’s? There, deep-hid in its accustomed pocket, Lay my sole pipe, smashed to smithereens! * * * On, on the vessel steals; Round go the paddle-wheels, And now the tourist feels As he should; For king-like rolls the Rhine, And the scenery’s divine, And the victuals and the wine Rather good. From every crag we pass’ll Rise up some hoar old castle; The hanging fir-groves tassel Every slope; And the vine her lithe arms stretches O’er peasants singing catches— And you’ll make no end of sketches, I should hope. We’ve a nun here (called Therèse), Two couriers out of place, One Yankee, with a face Like a ferret’s: And three youths in scarlet caps Drinking chocolate and schnapps— A diet which perhaps Has its merits. And day again declines: In shadow sleep the vines, And the last ray through the pines Feebly glows, Then sinks behind yon ridge; And the usual evening midge Is settling on the bridge Of my nose. And keen’s the air and cold, And the sheep are in the fold, And Night walks sable-stoled Through the trees; And on the silent river The floating starbeams quiver;— And now, the saints deliver Us from fleas. * * *