The water rush'd and bubbled by--
An angler near it lay,
And watch'd his quill, with tranquil eye,
Upon the current play.
And as he sits in wasteful dream,
He sees the flood unclose,
And from the middle of the stream
A river-maiden rose.
She sang to him with witching wile,
"My brood why wilt thou snare,
With human craft and human guile,
To die in scorching air?
Ah! didst thou know how happy we
Who dwell in waters clear,
Thou wouldst come down at once to me,
And rest for ever here.
"The sun and ladye-moon they lave
Their tresses in the main,
And breathing freshness from the wave,
Come doubly bright again.
The deep blue sky, so moist and clear,
Hath it for thee no lure?
Does thine own face not woo thee down
Unto our waters pure?"
The water rush'd and bubbled by--
It lapp'd his naked feet;
He thrill'd as though he felt the touch
Of maiden kisses sweet.
She spoke to him, she sang to him--
Resistless was her strain--
Half-drawn, he sank beneath the wave,
And ne'er was seen again.
* * * * *
Our next extract smacks of the Troubadours, and would have better
suited good old King René of Provence than a Paladin of the days of
Charlemagne. Goethe has neither the eye of Wouverman nor Borgognone,
and sketches but an indifferent battle-piece. Homer was a stark
moss-trooper, and so was Scott; but the Germans want the cry of "boot
and saddle" consumedly. However, the following is excellent in its
way.