THE LORELEI.
I know not whence it rises,
This thought so full of woe;
But a tale of times departed
Haunts me, and will not go.
The air is cool, and it darkens,
And calmly flows the Rhine;
The mountain-peaks are sparkling
In the sunny evening-shine.
And yonder sits a maiden,
The fairest of the fair;
With gold is her garment glittering,
And she combs her golden hair:
With a golden comb she combs it;
And a wild song singeth she,
That melts the heart with a wondrous
And powerful melody.
The boatman feels his bosom
With a nameless longing move;
He sees not the gulfs before him,
His gaze is fixed above,
Till over boat and boatman
The Rhine’s deep waters run:
And this, with her magic singing,
The Lorelei has done!
Among the pleasing stories related on this evening was “Little Mook,” by Hauff, and a poetic account of a “Queer Old Lady who went to College.”
LITTLE MOOK.
There once lived a dwarf in the town of Niceu, whom the people called Little Mook. He lived alone, and was thought to be rich. He had a very small body and a very large head, and he wore an enormous turban.