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.

With golden comb so lustrous,
And thereby a song sings,
It has a tone so wondrous,
That powerful melody rings.

The shipper in the little ship
It effects with woe sad might;
He does not see the rocky slip,
He only regards dreaded height.

I believe the turbulent waves
Swallow the last shipper and boat;
She with her singing craves
All to visit her magic moat.

No translation could be closer.  He has got in all the facts; and in their regular order, too.  There is not a statistic wanting.  It is as succinct as an invoice.  That is what a translation ought to be; it should exactly reflect the thought of the original.  You can’t sing “Above wonderfully there,” because it simply won’t go to the tune, without damaging the singer; but it is a most clingingly exact translation of Dort OBEN WUNDERBAR—­fits it like a blister.  Mr. Garnham’s reproduction has other merits—­a hundred of them—­but it is not necessary to point them out.  They will be detected.