[Very tenderly.
Her clear shining eyes
Must have been soft,
And gentle like the roe-deer's,
Only far fairer.
[Very softly.
In fear and woe she bore me,
But why did she die through me?
Must then all human mothers
Thus die on giving
Birth to a son?
That would truly be sad!
Ah, if I only
Could see my mother!—
See my mother,
A woman once!
[He sighs softly, and leans still further back. Deep silence. Louder murmuring of the wood. His attention is at last caught by the song of the birds. He listens with growing interest to one singing in the branches above him.
O lovely warbler,
I know not thy note;
Hast thou thy home in this wood?
If I could but understand him,
His sweet song might say much—
Perhaps of my mother tell me.
A surly old dwarf
Said to me once
That men might learn
To follow the sense
Of birds when they were singing;
Could it indeed be done?
Ha! I will sing
After him,
On the reed follow him sweetly.
Though wanting the words,
Repeating his measure—
Singing what is his language—
Perhaps I shall know what he says.
[He runs to the neighbouring spring, cuts a reed off with his sword, and quickly makes himself a pipe out of it. He listens again.
He stops to hear,
So now for my song!