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BOPPARD.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

THERE stands at Boppard upon the Rhine,

A crumbling convent, old and brown;

Gray its arches, and seared its shrine;

Like a fossiled spectre of olden time

It stands as a guard to the ruined town.

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The Rhine sweeps by, as it swept of yore,

And lights the tower at early dawn;

But the vesper chime is heard no more,

And the gray nuns' evening chant is o'er, -

For the glory of Boppard now is gone.

But the peasant oft breathes a hasty prayer,

Passing its portals at dead of night;

For a sweet, weird music fills the air,

And a vision is seen of a maiden fair,

Robed in an armor of dazzling white.

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