I.
Maidens, say, heard ye the sorrowful story
Of a turreted castle all mossy and hoary,
That stood on the banks of the dark-flowing Rhine,
Where the tall hills are clad with the grape-laden vine,
Where the strains of the flute and the plaintive guitar
Are echoed each night ’neath the glow of the star,
Where the days glide as smooth as the waves of the river,
And swift as the shaft from an Indian quiver?
Oh, Heaven has showered with a bountiful hand
All, all that is lovely and gorgeous and grand
On the Rhine’s noble valley, that beautiful land,
Yet alas!—for the tale I am going to tell
Is as sad as the chime of a funeral bell,
And oft as they pause at their leisure to listen,
The tear on the pale cheek of beauty will glisten.
Weeping they will turn away,
Sighing have I heard them say,
“Of all the woes that blight us from above,
The saddest is the pang of unrequited love.”