Translations from Heine.
169
There lay outstretched beside her
Her son, and he was dead;
On the pallid features sparkled
The light of the morning red.
The mother folded her hands then,
She felt so wistfully;
Devoutly sang she softly:
"Blessèd be thou, Marie!"
THE LORELEY.
But my heart feels sad and cold;
A song in my head keeps humming,
A tale from the times of old.
The air is fresh and it darkles,
And smoothly flows the Rhine;
The peak of the mountain sparkles
In the fading sunset-shine.
The loveliest wonderful Maiden
On high is sitting there,
With golden jewels braiden,
And she combs her golden hair.
