The flowers may deck themselves full sweet,
And sweetly scent the air;
But none can press thee to its heart
With the love of a mother’s care.
So early at the gate of life
Has dawned an orphan’s lot;
The highest blessing thou hast missed
And yet thou know’st it not.
A noble duke comes riding by,
And stops, beholding thee:
He takes thee to his castle-halls,
A maid of high degree.
Great is the boon and great thy gain,
Thou’rt fairest in the land:
Yet, ah, the purest joy of all
Is lost–on an unknown strand!
With a sad smile Undine let fall her lute, and the eyes of Bertalda’s foster-parents filled full of tears.
“Ay, ay,” quoth the duke, “’twas so indeed that I found thee, my poor orphan,” and he seemed deeply moved; “the fair singer says truly. The purest joy of all we have had no power to give thee!”
“But now listen,” said Undine, “for we must hear how it fared with the poor parents.” Thereat she struck the strings and sang as followeth:
The mother wanders through the house:
Wherever she might come,
She seeks with tears she knows not what,
And finds an empty home.
