THE DESERTED HOME

Sadly talks the blackbird here. Well I know the woe he found: No matter who cut down his nest, For its young it was destroyed. I myself not long ago Found the woe he now has found. Well I read thy song, O bird, For the ruin of thy home. Thy heart, O blackbird, burnt within At the deed of reckless man: Thy nest bereft of young and egg The cowherd deems a trifling tale. At thy clear notes they used to come, Thy new-fledged children, from afar; No bird now comes from out thy house, Across its edge the nettle grows. They murdered them, the cowherd lads, All thy children in one day: One the fate to me and thee, My own children live no more. There was feeding by thy side Thy mate, a bird from o'er the sea: Then the snare entangled her, At the cowherds' hands she died. O Thou, the Shaper of the world! Uneven hands Thou layst on us: Our fellows at our side are spared, Their wives and children are alive. A fairy host came as a blast To bring destruction to our house: Though bloodless was their taking off, Yet dire as slaughter by the sword. Woe for our wife, woe for our young! The sadness of our grief is great: No trace of them within, without— And therefore is my heart so sad.