RONDEAU. RETURN, my friend; too long is thy delay; For there is none, save thee, who can or may, JEHAN FROISSART.—Rondeau. "Tis cool, and the shades are growing Along the tranquil Rhine; The crest of the hill is glowing Aloft in the red sunshine. Up yonder sits a maiden Bewitching, wondrous fair; With gold is her garment laden, She combs her golden hair. Her golden comb is glancing, Her hair is floating free, And she sings, with a voice entrancing, A marvellous melody. It has lured the boatman already, He sees not the driving eddy, He gazes on her alone: Till, round in the whirlpool swinging, The boat and boatman fly; And that is what came of the singing Of the song of the Lorelei. HEINE.-Die Lorelei. THE VIOLET. A VIOLET in the mead had grown, Bowed in itself, and all unknown; With merry heart, and glances bright, A shepherdess came tripping light, The mead along, and sang. Ah, thought the violet, that I were The fairest flower beyond compare, And not a simple violet, That she might pluck me-to be pressed, And lie, and languish, on her breast But one, but one, One half-an-hour long! |