To the sorrowful soul, the pride of pelf.
How blithe was my childhood—how free from care!
Our house was lowly and scant our store;
But treasures of hope in my breast I bore.
Gudmund.
[Whose eyes have been fixed upon her.]
E’en then you were growing to beauty rare.
Margit.
Mayhap; but the praises showered on me
Caused the wreck of my happiness—that I now see.