As soon as he has lighted one side, And hastens with beams all sparkling To lighten the other, already the first Is getting gloomy and darkling. Poor Sisyphus’ stone keeps rolling down, The Danaids’ bucket never Gets fill’d, and to lighten this earthly ball In vain is the sun’s endeavour. And when the mist of morning dispersed, I saw by the wayside projecting In the early glow, His figure, who died On the cross a death so affecting. I’m filled with dejection every time That I see Thee, my poor Relation, Whose mission was to redeem the world, And be mankind’s salvation. A sorry trick they play’d Thee indeed, The lords of the Council stately; O why didst Thou speak of Church and State In a manner to wound them greatly? To Thy misfortune the printing art To mortals had then not been given, Or else a book had been written by Thee On the subjects relating to heaven. The Censor would then have erased whate’er Satirical seem’d in its diction, And so the loving censorship Have saved Thee from crucifixion. Ah! if for Thy sermon on the mount Another text Thou hadst taken! Sufficient genius and talent were Thine, And the pious Thou need’st not have shaken. Money-changers and bankers Thou drov’st with the scourge From the temple, in just indignation-- Unhappy Enthusiast! Now on the cross Thou dost suffer a sad expiation. CAPUT XIV. The wind was humid, and barren the land, The chaise floundered on in the mire, Yet a singing and ringing were filling my ears: “O Sun, thou accusing fire!” The burden is this of the olden song That my nurse so often was singing-- “O Sun, thou accusing fire!” was then Like the note of the forest horn ringing. This song of a murderer tells the tale, Who lived a life joyous and splendid; Hung up in the forest at last he was found, From a grey old willow suspended. The murderer’s sentence of death was nail’d On the willow’s stem, written entire; The Vehm-gericht’s avengers’ work ’twas-- O Sun, thou accusing fire! The Sun was accuser,--’twas he who condemn’d The murderer foul, in his ire. Ottilia had cried, as she gave up the ghost: “O Sun, thou accusing fire!” When the song I recall, the remembrance too Of my dear old nurse never ceases I see once more her swarthy face, With all its wrinkles and creases. In the district of Münster she was born, And knew, in all their glory, Many popular songs and wondrous tales, And many a wild ghost-story. How my heart used to beat when the old nurse told how The king’s daughter, in days now olden, Sat all alone on the desert heath, While glisten’d her tresses so golden.