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 steadfast
rocks; Her, and her peace as well, Must I, God - hated one, to ruin hurl!