LETTER VIII.
Rabenau.—The Gallery.—The Terrace of Bruhl.—The Grosse Garten.—The great Heat.
Thy mountain torrent and thy narrow vale,
With every pine and fir that grow thereby;
The air that passes thee with gentle wail,
That it may not amidst thy thickets die;
Thine evening's quiet, and thy morning's gale,
And thy hot noon-day's mossy luxury;
Thy crags, whose legend says, “Each rugged rock
An altar is to Him who framed the block.”[1]
In such and other verse has the “valley of beauty, sunny Rabenau,” been celebrated by one of my friends, who visited it with us, and whose ardent and poetic imagination was warmed by inspiration in this lonely spot. I am sorry to say, that, secluded and beautiful as is the narrow dell, I did not quite share his transports; I obtained no refuge from the heat, from which I had endeavoured to escape. Truly we enjoyed the shade of woods and cliffs, and the refreshing murmur of the stream; but deep down and shut in as is the ravine, we found it close
- ↑ Giotto and Francesca and other Poems, by A. A. Knox, Esq.
