Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 927

What is to me heaven's joy within her arms?

What though my life her bosom warms!—

Do I not ever feel her woe?

The outcast am I not, unhoused, unblest,

Inhuman monster, without aim or rest,

Who, like the greedy surge, from rock to rock,

Sweeps down the dread abyss with desperate shock?

While she, within her lowly cot, which graced

The Alpine slope, beside the waters wild,

Her homely cares in that small world embraced,

Secluded lived, a simple artless child.

Was't not enough, in thy delirious whirl

To blast the stedfast rocks!

Her, and her peace as well,

Must I, God-hated one, to ruin hurl!

Dost claim this holocaust, remorseless Hell!

Fiend, help me to cut short the hours of dread!

Let what must happen, happen speedily!

Her direful doom fall crushing on my head,

And into ruin let her plunge with me!