Classic Poem

Like a passing bird with a sweet wild song,
Thou hast come to my native land;
And amid the noisy crowded streets
Of the stranger thou dost stand:
And thou pourest forth a ballad lay
Of the land where the laden vine
Dips its rich, ripe fruit and its sheltering leaves
In thine own beloved Rhine.

'Tis a tale of the deeds of other times —
Of the proud high hearts of old!
Which thy mother thine infant eyes to close,
At the gloamin' often told:
Of a craggy steep, and a castle strong —
Of a warder drunk with wine;
And a valorous knight and his lady-love, —
By thine own beloved Rhine.

Proud singer! I see thy flashing eyes, —
Thou art thinking on that river;
The rush of its waters deep and strong
Shall dwell in thine ears for ever:
Thou art sitting in dreams by that stream afar,
And a fresh, bright wreath you twine
Of the happy flowers that for ever blow,
By thine own beloved Rhine.

Thou hast changed thy song to a soft low strain,
And thy cheeks are wet with tears;
The home of thy youth, in thy fatherland,
'Neath its sheltering tree appears!
And thou seest thy parents far away,
And thy sister, loved like mine;
O! they long for thee as thou for them
And thine own beloved Rhine.

Thy song is done — we are parted now,
And may never meet again;
But wandering boy, thou hast touch'd a heart,
And thy song was not in vain;
God 's blessing on thee, poor minstrel boy,
May a happy lot be thine! —
May thy heart go uncorrupted back
To thine own beloved Rhine!