Here is the music, and the German words by Heinrich Heine.  This song has been a favorite in Germany for forty years, and will remain a favorite always, maybe. [Figure 5]

I have a prejudice against people who print things in a foreign language and add no translation.  When I am the reader, and the author considers me able to do the translating myself, he pays me quite a nice compliment—­but if he would do the translating for me I would try to get along without the compliment.

If I were at home, no doubt I could get a translation of this poem, but I am abroad and can’t; therefore I will make a translation myself.  It may not be a good one, for poetry is out of my line, but it will serve my purpose—­which is, to give the unGerman young girl a jingle of words to hang the tune on until she can get hold of a good version, made by some one who is a poet and knows how to convey a poetical thought from one language to another.

THE LORELEI

I cannot divine what it meaneth,
This haunting nameless pain: 
A tale of the bygone ages
Keeps brooding through my brain: 

The faint air cools in the glooming,
And peaceful flows the Rhine,
The thirsty summits are drinking
The sunset’s flooding wine;

The loveliest maiden is sitting
High-throned in yon blue air,
Her golden jewels are shining,
She combs her golden hair;

She combs with a comb that is golden,
And sings a weird refrain
That steeps in a deadly enchantment
The list’ner’s ravished brain: 

The doomed in his drifting shallop,
Is tranced with the sad sweet tone,
He sees not the yawning breakers,
He sees but the maid alone: 

The pitiless billows engulf him!—­
So perish sailor and bark;
And this, with her baleful singing,
Is the Lorelei’s gruesome work.

I have a translation by Garnham, Bachelor of Arts, in the legends of the Rhine, but it would not answer the purpose I mentioned above, because the measure is too nobly irregular; it don’t fit the tune snugly enough; in places it hangs over at the ends too far, and in other places one runs out of words before he gets to the end of a bar.  Still, Garnham’s translation has high merits, and I am not dreaming of leaving it out of my book.  I believe this poet is wholly unknown in America and England; I take peculiar pleasure in bringing him forward because I consider that I discovered him: 

THE LORELEI

Translated by L. W. Garnham, B.A.

I do not know what it signifies. 
That I am so sorrowful? 
A fable of old Times so terrifies,
Leaves my heart so thoughtful.

The air is cool and it darkens,
And calmly flows the Rhine;
The summit of the mountain hearkens
In evening sunshine line.

The most beautiful Maiden entrances
Above wonderfully there,
Her beautiful golden attire glances,
She combs her golden hair.