Poor babe, all in vain
Thou dost put forth thy hand
None clasp it again,
'Tis a bleak foreign land:
The flowers bloom brightly,
And soft breathes the air,
But all pass thee lightly:
Thy mother is far!
Thy life scarce begun,
Thy smiles fresh from heaven,
Thy best treasure is gone,
To another 'tis given.
A gallant charger treads the dell,
His noble rider pities thee;
He takes thee home, he tends thee well,
And cares for thee right gen'rously.
Well thou becom'st thy station high,
And bloom'st the fairest in the land;
And yet, alas! the purest joy
Is left on thine own distant strand.
Undine put down her lute with a melancholy smile and the eyes of the
Duke and Duchess filled with tears: "So it was when I found you, my
poor innocent orphan!" said the Duke with great emotion "as the fair
singer said, your best treasure was gone and we have been unable to
supply its place."
"Now let us think of the poor parents," said Undine and she struck
the chords and sang:--
I
Mother roves from room to room
Seeking rest, she knows not how,
The house is silent as the tomb,
And who is there to bless her now?
II
Silent house! Oh words of sorrow!
Where is now her darling child?
She who should have cheered the morrow,
And the evening hours beguiled?
III
The buds are swelling on the tree,
The sun returns when night is o'er;
But, mother, ne'er comes joy to thee,
Thy child shall bless thine eyes no more.
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