Who rides so late through the grisly night?
'Tis a father and child, and he grasps him tight;
He wraps him close in his mantle's fold,
And shelters the boy from the biting cold.
"My son, why thus to my arm dost cling?"
"Father, dost thou not see the Erlie-king?
The king with his crown and long black train!"
"My son, 'tis a streak of the misty rain! "
"Come hither, thou darling! come, go with me!
Fair games know I that I'll play with thee;
Many bright flowers my kingdoms hold!
My mother has many a robe of gold!"
"O father, dear father and dost thou not hear
What the Erlie-king whispers so low in mine ear?"
"Calm thee, my boy, 'tis only the breeze
Rustling the dry leaves beneath the trees!"
"Wilt thou go, bonny boy! wilt thou go with me?
My daughters shall wait on thee daintilie;
My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep,
And rock thee, and kiss thee, and sing thee to sleep!"
"O father, dear father! and dost thou not mark
Erlie-king's daughters move by in the dark?"
"I see it, my child; but it is not they,
'Tis the old willow nodding its head so grey!"
"I love thee! thy beauty charms me quite;
And if thou refusest, I'll take thee by might!"
"O father, dear father! he's grasping me--
My heart is as cold as cold can be!"
The father rides swiftly--with terror he gasps--
The sobbing child in his arms he clasps;
He reaches the castle with spurring and dread;
But, alack! in his arms the child lay dead!
* * * * *
Who has not heard of Mignon?--sweet, delicate little Mignon?--the
woman-child, in whose miniature, rather than portrait, it is easy to
trace the original of fairy Fenella? We would that we could
adequately translate the song, which in its native German is so
exquisitely plaintive, that few can listen to it without tears. This
poem, it is almost needless to say, is anterior in date to Byron's
Bride of Abyos