“Before thy castle gates, Sir King,
We hear the merman’s lay,
When to his harp we hear him sing
Our music we must stay.”
And hark! from out the sea there flow
Into the festal hall,
Through the clear night, sweet sounds and low
Which on their ears soft fall.
The sound into the bride’s soul steals,
As if in that same hour
Her dead love’s presence it reveals
By some strange magic power.
She knows not why, but from her eyes
Fast fall the tear-drops down;
Upon her breast the rose-bud dies,
Low lies her myrtle crown.
To the King’s proud soul it pierced through,
He cursed it in his heart;
The Prince to seek his charger flew,
And hurried to depart.
With broken heart the Bride lies dead,
For Grief hath power to kill;
And when the morning breaketh red,
The Merman’s Harp is still.
E. C.
