given to them by one of the earliest poets of Greece[1] and a poet of our own time—poet of the sea, of running water, and of lonely places—quotes from the saying of a fisherman of the isle of Ulva words that show why simple minds have so many times materialised the restless, devouring element into the form of a woman who is very beautiful, but whose tender mercies are very cruel. "She is like a woman of the old tales whose beauty is dreadful," said Seumas, the islander, "and who breaks your heart at last whether she smiles or frowns. But she doesn't care about that, or whether you are hurt or not. It's because she has no heart, being all a wild water."[2]
Treacherous, beautiful, remorseless, that is how men regard the sea and the rushing rivers, of whom the sirens and mermaids of old tradition have come to stand as symbols. Treacherous and pitiless, yet with a fascination that can draw even the moon and the stars to her breast:
"Once I sat upon a promontory,
"And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back.
"Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath.
"That the rude sea grew civil at her song;
"And certain stars shot madly from their spheres.
"To hear the sea-maid's music."—Shakespeare.
Very many are the stories of the women of the sea and of the rivers, but that one who must forever hold her own, because Heine has immortalised her in song, is the river maiden of the Rhine—the Lorelei.
