Leaving Metz, and all its soldiers, ramparts, and ditches far behind, our river, passing through a level country, arrives at Thionville. This town was in the diocese of Trèves, and dependent on the Parliament of Metz. Here Charlemagne had a favourite palace; and here, in a solemn assembly, he parted his vast estates between his three sons.

Its history is like that of Metz, made up of sieges, [66]assaults, and surprises, but of less importance and less interest. It was always a strong place, and at the present day its fortifications, constructed by Vauban and Cormontaigne, are amongst the strongest in Europe: it lies in a level plain, and is uninteresting, though rather picturesque.

The Moselle rolls on, and in about twelve miles reaches Sierck, a clean little town, on its right bank; and then we pass from France to Prussia, and our river becomes German, its future beauty beginning to dawn as it approaches Trèves. Two streams here increase the volume of her waters—a smaller one on the left, and the Saar on the right.

There is one peculiar charm about the banks and neighbourhood of the Moselle, found equally at its source near Bussang, and amidst the German hills, this is, the number and variety of the beautiful wild-flowers with which its whole course teems, and with which our river is, as it were, garlanded.
MOSELLE FLOWERS.

Where the Mosel1 murmurs low,

As its waters gently flow

Through the woods and flow’ry dells,

There a wood-nymph hidden dwells.

Hidden she from mortal view,

Yet her footsteps may be traced

Where the night has scattered dew.

And the boughs are interlaced.
[67]

If her feet have pressed the ground,

There the blooming flowers are found;

These gifts mark where she has strayed,—

Thus we trace the fairy maid.

The violet and lily grow.

The wild-rose and the tiny pink.

And the brilliant corn-flowers blow.

Hard by the gentle river’s brink;

The foxglove waves its lofty head

Above the trickling streamlet’s bed;

The wild convolvulus doth twine

Its graceful arms around the vine.

The snapdragon and mignonette.

The clematis and flox,

In ev’ry vale are frequent met;

And springing from the rocks,

The broom, the fern, and sweet red heather.

Profuse are found in groups together.

The raspberry, strawberry, and thyme,

Over every hill do climb;

And in ev’ry wild retreat

We find the honeysuckle sweet.

Blackberries, with fruit and thorn,

With the wild hop intertwine;

All these flowers the woods adorn,

And their loveliness combine.

So the wood-nymph’s steps we trace,

As she roams from place to place,

Scattering beauty o’er the ground;

Thus the earth with flowers is crowned.

Only a few of the flowers that we find growing there are enumerated in the above; moreover, they are more beautiful than wild flowers usually are, attaining [68]to great size; the enothera, harebells, and campanulas, with wild geraniums, and a host of others, go to swell the list.

Before the Saar runs in, the red rocks of Trèves appear on the left bank, jutting over the trees, close to the river’s course; then they retire inland, until the old Roman bridge is reached; there they again approach, and from their heights the remnant of old Trèves is spread out, environed by its avenues and studded with its churches and ruins. The river is beneath; and the eight-arched bridge, complete as in the golden days of Rome, clasps the waist of our river as a zone encircling that of a young girl just budding into womanhood.

And so, our graceful woman-stream at Trèves ceases her girlhood and becomes more beautiful, more reflective, and more graceful; the hills draw near, and the vineyards sparkle among the rocks; her handmaidens, the brooks, wait at every turn to tend her, increasing her beauty; and following in her train, pass along in glorious procession, the trees bending and the rocks falling back before the might of innocence and love.

Strong in innocence, with virgin bosom unsullied, nothing less bright than heaven’s reflection ever having rested there; but mightier still in love,—abounding love,—that causes her to feed the earth and fertilise the soil wherever she passes; so that man, receiving at her hands his daily food, thanks and blesses her, and praises, through her, her Creator.

We, the lookers-on, or lighter toilers, should bless her surely not less than the poor vine-dresser or digger [69]of the soil. True, for one she has carved the rock into sunny platforms, and for the other she has left upon the rocks a thick coating of productive earths; but to us she has given that brighter gift of higher value far,—the impress of God’s beneficence, not merely through material food and drink, but through the superior senses which feed the mind.

It is impossible to wander from the source of our Moselle, to muse over the rise and fall of the nations and cities on her banks, to look upon her rocks and flowers, to glide adown her stream, to stand amidst the ruined walls of her old towers, to watch the seed-time and harvest on her banks, the clustering bunches and the brilliant glow of the wine and corn, with all the lesser incidents adorning her;—it is impossible to view all these, to ruminate and gaze, to live with her and be of her in all her windings, all her sunshine and refreshing shade, and not imbibe a portion of her spirit; a portion, larger as we look deeper and think more, of her innocence and peace of mind, which, laid up within our hearts, as the corn and wine within the store, will give us at a future time joy and gladness.

Harvest-time passes, and the vintage ends; but when the long winter comes, their productiveness is present, and the stores laid up are found to be indeed true treasures. 

1 German name for the Moselle.