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| O, THERE be isles within the Rhine, | |
| Which cradle on their mother’s breast, | |
| That breast that loves them all, and heaves | |
| In music through their noonday rest; | |
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| And some there be, soft, green, and low, | 5 |
| That as the infant in its pillow | |
| Nestles its drowsy head, so these | |
| Hide half their brightness in the billow. | |
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| And others wear the scars of Time | |
| Upon their bleak, ascending towers, | 10 |
| That fill the gazer’s eyes with tears, | |
| Reverting to those sunnier hours, | |
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| When at the corselet’s vivid gleam | |
| Blue eyes peeped forth from turret stair, | |
| While jubilant the far-seen train | 15 |
| Waved Christ’s red banner through the air. | |
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| And still those shattered, ivied piles | |
| Are nourished with romantic tears, | |
| And phantoms in their own moonshine | |
| Mock the old gleam of feudal spears. | 20 |
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| Ay! all are fair; but one I love | |
| So deeply it doth seem mine own, | |
| For I have gazed upon its trees | |
| Till they into my heart have grown. | |
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| I see it now, so meekly proud, | 25 |
| Steadfast amid the gliding water, | |
| And proud as should be isle that is | |
| Bower for a Duke’s preferréd daughter. | |
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| Therefore its columned sweep of trees | |
| Have something of a courtly bearing, | 30 |
| And e’en its scented thickets wild | |
| Their flowers coquettishly are wearing. | |
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| But sure no royal maiden’s foot | |
| Ere pressed the pride of India’s loom | |
| As this, so soft and colored fair, | 35 |
| With turfy slope and glossiest bloom. | |
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| It leaves the waves and glances wide | |
| Its living carpet round the isle, | |
| Enclosing in an emerald ring | |
| The dove’s low song, the daisy’s smile. | 40 |
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