In flaming letters written, was impress d
Then the youth gave way to his sorrow, and burst into weeping,Weeping aloud on the breast of his mother, and softly replying"Truly, my father's words to-day have wounded me sadly,Never have I deserved at his hands such treatment,--no, never!For to honour my parents was always my wish from my childhood,No one ever appear'd so prudent and wise as my parents,Who in the darker days of childhood carefully watch'd me.Much indeed it has been my lot to endure from my playmates,When with their knavish pranks they used to embitter my temper.Often I little suspected the tricks they were playing upon me:But if they happen'd to ridicule Father, whenever on SundaysOut of church he came with his slow deliberate footsteps,If they laugh'd at the strings of his cap, and his dressing-gown's flowers,Which he in stately wise wore, and to-day at length has discarded,Then in a fury I clench'd my fist, and, storming and raging,Fell upon them and hit and struck with terrible onslaught,Heedless where my blows fell. With bleeding noses they halloed,And could scarcely escape from the force of my blows and my kicking.Then, as in years I advanced, I had much to endure from my father,Who, in default of others to blame, would often abuse me,When at the Council's last sitting his anger perchance was excited,And I the penalty paid of the squabbles and strife of his colleagues.You yourself have oft pitied me; I endured it with patience,Always rememb'ring the much-to-be-honour'd kindness of parents,Whose only thought is to swell for our sakes their goods and possessions,And who deprive themselves of much, to save for their children.But, alas, not saving alone, for enjoyment hereafter,Constitutes happiness, no, not heaps of gold or of silver,Neither field upon field, however compact the estate be.For the father grows old, and his son at the same time grows older,Feeling no joy in To-day, and full of care for To-morrow.Now look down from this height, and see how beauteous before usLies the fair rich expanse, with vineyard and gardens at bottom;There are the stables and barns, and the rest of the property likewise;There I also descry the back of our house, in the gablesOf the roof may be seen the window of my small apartment.When I remember the time when I used to look out for the moon thereHalf through the night, or perchance at morning awaited the sunrise,When with but few hours of healthy sleep I was fully contented,Ah, how lonely do all things appear! My chamber, the court, andGarden, the beautiful field which spreads itself over the hillside;All appears but a desert to me: I still am unmarried!"Then his good mother answer'd his speech in a sensible manner"Son, your wish to be able to lead your bride to her chamber,Turning the night to the dearest and happiest half of your lifetime,Making your work by day more truly free and unfetter'd,Cannot be greater than that of your father and mother. We alwaysUrged you,--commanded, I even might say,--to choose some fair maiden.But I know full well, and my heart has told me alreadyIf the right hour arrives not, or if the right maiden appears notInstantly when they are sought for, man's choice is thrown in confusion,And he is driven by fear to seize what is counterfeit only.If I may tell you, my son, your choice already is taken,For your heart is smitten, and sensitive more than is usual.Answer me plainly, then, for my spirit already has told me:She whom now you have chosen is that poor emigrant maiden!"