It may not be a good one, for poetry is out of my line, but it will serve my purpose--which is, to give the unGerman young girl a jingle of words to hang the tune on until she can get hold of a good version, made by some one who is a poet and knows how to convey a poetical thought from one language to another.
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 hermagic 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.