And my cold soul is torn by grief.

THE OUTCAST.

On a rainy autumn evening

Into desert places went a maid;

And the secret fruit of unhappy love

In her trembling hands she held.

All was still: the woods and the hills

Asleep in the darkness of the night;

And her searching glances

In terror about she cast.

And on this babe, the innocent,

Her glance she paused with a sigh:

"Asleep thou art, my child, my grief,

Thou knowest not my sadness.

Thine eyes will ope, and though with longing,

To my breast shalt no more cling.

No kiss for thee to-morrow

From thine unhappy mother.

Beckon in vain for her thou wilt,

My everlasting shame, my guilt!

Me forget thou shalt for aye,

But thee forget shall not I;

Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers;

Who'll say: Thou art none of ours!

Thou wilt ask: Where are my parents?

But for thee no kin is found.

Hapless one! with heart filled with sorrow,

Lonely amid thy mates,

Thy spirit sullen to the end

Thou shalt behold the fondling mothers.

A lonely wanderer everywhere,

Cursing thy fate at all times,

Thou the bitter reproach shalt hear ...

Forgive me, oh, forgive me then!