« PreviousContinue »
RETURN, my friend; too long is thy delay;
For there is none, save thee, who can or may,
JEHAN FROISSARI.-Rondeau. THE LORËLEI.
I AM weary and heavy-hearted,
And cannot the reason find;
'Tis cool, and the shades are growing
Along the tranquil Rhine;
Her golden comb is glancing,
Her hair is floating free,
A marvellous melody,
It has lured the boatinan already,
And a spell is o'er him thrown; He sees not the driving eddy,
He gazes on her alone :
Till, round in the whirlpool swinging,
The boat and boatman fly;
Of the song of the Lorëlei.
A VIOLET in the mead had grown,
A shepherdess came tripping light,
Ah, thought the violet, that I were
The fairest flower beyond compare,
And not a simple violet,
But one, but one,
One half-an-hour long !