Rejoicing in His suffering;But he in triumph comes again
1807?.-----THE LOVING ONE WRITES.
If she in water can inflame
Alone tow'rd heaven to nod,--'Tis there the ashes lie
Thousand greetings from my friend;Ere these hills own night's dark sway,
Is heard the sigh, and grief revives anew;The friends are told, who, in their hour of pride,Deceived by fortune, vanish'd from my side.
But the excellent maiden, by words of such irony wounded,(As she esteem'd them to be) and deeply distress'd in her spirit,Stood, while a passing flush from her cheeks as far as her neck wasSpreading, but she restrain'd herself, and collected her thoughts soon;Then to the old man she said, not fully concealing her sorrow"Truly I was not prepared by your son for such a reception,When he described his father's nature,--that excellent burgher,And I know I am standing before you, a person of culture,Who behaves himself wisely to all, in a suitable manner.But it would seem that you feel not pity enough for the poor thingWho has just cross'd your threshold, prepared to enter your serviceElse you would not seek to point out, with ridicule bitter,How far removed my lot from your son's and that of yourself is.True, with a little bundle, and poor, I have enter'd your dwelling,Which it is the owner's delight to furnish with all things.But I know myself well, and feel the whole situation.Is it generous thus to greet me with language so jeering,Which was well nigh expelled me the house, when just on the threshold?"
But, alas! all hope, all assistance is far.
She bears the mother across the spray.
Then the son thoughtfully answer'd:--"I know not why, but the fact isMy annoyance has graven itself in my mind, and hereafterI could not bear at the piano to see her, or list to her singing."
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