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.