She sang of this earthly valley of tears, Of joys which so soon have vanish’d, Of yonder, where revels the glorified soul In eternal bliss, grief being banish’d. The song of renunciation she sang, The heavenly eiapopeia, Wherewith the people, the booby throng, Are hush’d when they soothing require. I know the tune, and I know the text, I know the people who wrote it; I know that in secret they drink but wine, And in public a wickedness vote it. A song, friends, that’s new, and a better one, too, Shall be now for your benefit given! Our object is, that here on earth We may mount to the realms of heaven. On earth we fain would happy be, Nor starve for the sake of the stronger; The idle stomach shall gorge itself With the fruit of hard labour no longer. Bread grows on the earth for every one, Enough, and e’en in redundance, And roses and myrtles, beauty and joy, And sugarplums too in abundance. Yes, sugarplums for every one, As soon as the plums are provided; To angels and sparrows we’re quite content That heaven should be confided. If after death our pinions should grow, We’ll pay you a visit auspicious In regions above, and with you we’ll eat Sweet tarts and cakes delicious. A song that’s new, and a better one, too, Resounds like fiddle and flute now; The Miserere’s at last at an end, The funeral bells are mute now. The maiden Europe has been betroth’d To the handsome Genius Freedom; They clasp and kiss each other with warmth, As their newborn passions lead ’em. The priestly blessing may absent be, But the wedding is still a wedding; So here’s long life to the bridegroom and bride, And the future fruit of their bedding! An epithalamium is my song, My latest and best creation; Within my soul are shooting the stars That proclaim its inauguration. Those stars inspired blaze wildly on In torrents of flame, and with wonder I feel myself full of unearthly strength, I could rend e’en oaks asunder! Since I on Germany’s ground have trod, I’m pervaded by magical juices; The giant has touch’d his mother once more, And the contact new vigour produces. CAPUT II. Whilst heavenly joys were warbled thus And sung by the little maiden, The Prussian douaniers search’d my trunk, As soon as the coach was unladen. They poked their noses in every thing, Each handkerchief, shirt, and stocking; They sought for jewels, prohibited books, And lace, with a rudeness quite shocking. Ye fools, so closely to search my trunk! Ye will find in it really nothing; My contraband goods I carry about In my head, not hid in my clothing.