The Return Home, 2

In vain would I seek to discover
Why sad and mournful am I;
My thoughts without ceasing brood over
A tale of the times gone by.

The air is cool, and it darkleth,
And calmly flows the Rhine;
The peak of the mountain sparkleth,
While evening’s sun doth shine.

Yon sits a wondrous maiden
On high, a maiden fair;
With bright golden jewels all-laden,
She combs her golden hair.

She combs it with comb all-golden,
And sings the while a song;
How strange is that melody olden,
As loudly it echoes along!

It fills with wild terror the sailor
At sea in his tiny skiff;
He looks but on high, and grows paler,
Nor sees the rock-girded cliff.

The waves will the bark and its master
At length swallow up, then methought
’Tis Lore-ley who this disaster
With her false singing hath wrought.