The Lorely

Ah, where are the echoes of gladness
Which dwell in my listening mind ?
What meaneth the whisper of sadness,
Like the moan of the autumn wind ?

I am chained by an often told story,
Come down from the olden time
When fairydom saw its glory,
A haunting, saddening chime.

The air is still and darkling,
And silently flows the Rhine ;
The mountain peaks are sparkling,
Where sunset rays yet shine.

A strangely beauteous maiden
Sits high on the grim rock there
Her arms are with rich gems laden.
She combeth her golden hair.

With a golden comb she is combing,
And sings an enchanted song,
And wondrously through the gloaming
That melody floats along.

Then a wild weird sorrow amazeth
The boatman in gliding skiff,
While upward alone he gazeth
He sees not the fatal cliff.

The wave-bells a knell are ringing,
For the Rhine his prey hath won,
And that with her syren-singing
Hath the Sprite of the Lorely done.