Once—'twas when I lived at Jena—
At a Wirthshous' door I sat;
And in pensive contemplation
Ate the sausage thick and fat'
Ate the kraut that never sourer
Tasted to my lips than here;
Smoked my pipe of strong canaster,
Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer;
Gazed upon the glancing river,
Gazed upon the tranquil pool,
Whence the silver-voiced Undine,
When the nights were calm and cool,
As the Baron FouquÉ tells us,
Rose from out her shelly grot,
Casting glamour o'er the waters,
Witching that enchanted spot.

From the shadow which the coppice
Flings across the rippling stream,
Did I hear a sound of music—
Was it thought or was it dream?
There, beside a pile of linen,
Stretched along the daisied sward,
Stood a young and blooming maiden—
'Twas her thrush-like song I heard.

Evermore within the eddy
Did she plunge the white chemise;
And her robes were losely gathered
Rather far above her knees;
Then my breath at once forsook me,
For too surely did I deem
That I saw the fair Undine
Standing in the glancing stream—
And I felt the charm of knighthood;
And from that remembered day,
Every evening to the Wirthshaus
Took I my enchanted way.

Shortly to relate my story,
Many a week of summer long
Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken,
With my lute and with my song;
Sang in mellow-toned soprano
All my love and all my woe,
Till the river-maiden answered,
Lilting in the stream below:—
"Fair Undine! sweet Undine!
Dost thou love as I love thee?"
"Love is free as running water,"
Was the answer made to me.

Thus, in interchange seraphic,
Did I woo my phantom fay,
Till the nights grew long and chilly,
Short and shorter grew the day;
Till at last—'twas dark and gloomy,
Dull and starless was the sky,
And my steps were all unsteady,
For a little flushed was I,—
To the well-accustomed signal
No response the maiden gave;
But I heard the waters washing,
And the moaning of the wave.

Vanished was my own Undine,
All her linen, too, was gone;
And I walked about lamenting
On the river bank alone.
Idiot that I was, for never
Had I asked the maiden's name.
Was it Lieschen—was it Gretchen?
Had she tin, or whence she came?
So I took my trusty meerschaum,
And I took my lute likewise;
Wandered forth in minstrel fashion,
Underneath the louring skies;
Sang before each comely Wirthshaus,
Sang beside each purling stream,
That same ditty which I chanted
When Undine was my theme,
Singing, as I sang at Jena,
When the shifts were hung to dry,
"Fair Undine! young Undine!
Dost thou love as well as I?"

But, alas! in field or village,
Or beside the pebbly shore,
Did I see those glancing ankles,
And the white robe never more;
And no answer came to greet me,
No sweet voice to mine replied;
But I heard the waters rippling,
And the moaning of the tide.