(From the German of Heine.)
I.
I know not what it presages,
This sadness of my heart;—
A tale of bygone ages
From my mind will not depart.
II.
The air is cool and is darkling,
And softly flows the Rhine;
The crest of the mountain is sparkling
In the evening’s calm sunshine.
III.
Yonder at ease reclining
Sits a maiden wondrous fair,
Her golden jewels shining,
As she combs her golden hair.
IV.
With a golden comb she is combing,
And she sings a sad, sweet song,
That through the quiet gloaming,
So strangely floats along!
V.
The doomed in his shallop speeding,
Is seized with a pang of woe;—
He drifts on the rocks, naught heeding,
Save the mountain crest aglow.
VI.
Alas! ’neath the waves in their madness,
The sailor and boat are gone;—
And this, with her song of sadness,
The Lorelei has done.