Fairer scene the opening eye Of the day can scarce descry-- Fairer sight he looks not on Than the pleasant banks of Rhone; Where in terraces and ranks, On those undulating banks, Rise by many a hilly stair Sloping tiers of vines, where’er From the steep and stony soil Has been won by careful toil, And with long laborious pains Fenced against the washing rains, Fenced and anxiously walled round, A little patch of garden ground. Higher still some place of power, Or a solitary tower, Ruined now, is looking down On some quiet little town In a sheltered glen beneath, Where the smoke’s unbroken wreath, Mounting in the windless air, Rests, dissolving slowly there, O’er the housetops like a cloud, Or a thinnest vapourous shroud.
Morn has been, and lo! how soon Has arrived the middle noon, And the broad sun’s rays do rest On some naked mountain’s breast, Where alone relieve the eye Massive shadows, as they lie In the hollows motionless; Still our boat doth onward press. Now a peaceful current wide Bears it on an ample tide, Now the hills retire, and then Their broad fronts advance again, Till the rocks have closed us round, And would seem our course to bound, But anon a way appears, And our vessel onward steers, Darting swiftly as between Narrow walls of a ravine.
Morn has been and noon--and now Evening falls about our prow: But the sunken sunset still Burns behind the western hill; Lo! the starry troop again Gather on the ethereal plain; Even now and there were none, And a moment since but one; And anon we lift our head, And all heaven is overspread With a still assembling crowd, With a silent multitude-- Venus, first and brightest set In the night’s pale coronet, Armed Orion’s belted pride, And the Seven that by the side Of the Titan nightly weave Dances in the mystic eve, Sisters linked in love and light; ’Twere in truth a solemn sight, Were we sailing now as they, Who upon their western way To the isles of spice and gold, Nightly watching, might behold These our constellations dip, And the great sign of the Ship Rise upon the other hand, With the Cross that seems to stand In the vault of heaven upright, Marking the middle hour of night-- Or with them whose keels first prest The mighty rivers of the west, Who the first with bold intent Down the Orellana went,[6] Or a dangerous progress won On the mighty Amazon, By whose ocean-streams they tell How yet the warrior-maidens dwell.