 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
The Lorely.
Ah, where are the echoes of gladness
Which dwell in my listening mind?
What meaneth the whisper of sadness,
Like the moan of the autumn wind?
Which dwell in my listening mind?
What meaneth the whisper of sadness,
Like the moan of the autumn wind?
I am chained by an often told story,
Come down from the olden time
When fairydom saw its glory,
A haunting, saddening chime.
Come down from the olden time
When fairydom saw its glory,
A haunting, saddening chime.
The air is still and darkling,
And silently flows the Rhine;
The mountain peaks are sparkling,
Where sunset rays yet shine.
And silently flows the Rhine;
The mountain peaks are sparkling,
Where sunset rays yet shine.
A strangely beauteous maiden
Sits high on the grim rock there
Her arms are with rich gems laden,
She combeth her golden hair.
Sits high on the grim rock there
Her arms are with rich gems laden,
She combeth her golden hair.
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With a golden comb she is combing,
And sings an enchanted song,
And wondrously through the gloaming
That melody floats along.
And sings an enchanted song,
And wondrously through the gloaming
That melody floats along.
Then a wild weird sorrow amazeth
The boatman in gliding skiff,
While upward alone he gazeth
He sees not the fatal cliff.
The boatman in gliding skiff,
While upward alone he gazeth
He sees not the fatal cliff.
The wave-bells a knell are ringing,
For the Rhine his prey hath won,
And that with her syren-singing
Hath the Sprite of the Lorely done.
For the Rhine his prey hath won,
And that with her syren-singing
Hath the Sprite of the Lorely done.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |