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;

F

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 thro' 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

Thro' the trees;

And on the silent river

The floating starbeams quiver ;

And now, the saints deliver

Us from fleas.

Avenues of broad white houses,

Basking in the noontide glare;—

Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from, As on hot plates shrinks the bear;

Elsewhere lawns, and vista'd gardens,
Statues white, and cool arcades,

Where at eve the German warrior

Winks upon the German maids ;