VIII.
Now, dear moon, the elegy forgetting,
Let us pass to a heroic vein
For the story I will now narrate you
Has a very diabolic strain.
There’s a road from Reichenhall to Weidring,
You know well the road I mean, perchance,
This cannot be passed through simple passage
Of a legal form of ordinance.
Cliffs and mountains reaching even higher
Than the quarrels that 'twixt nations soar,
And along the road a baseless abyss,
Gaping as when army cannons roar.
Through the night as dark as church, our mother,
Down the hill we ride, a wink-like feat;
Vainly Dedera shouts: “Hold the horses!”
No one’s in the seat.
Our carriage creaks; wild are the horses;
Devil drives them over hill and plain,
While the driver somewhere round the hillside
Lights his pipe again.
Steep the road, inclined as a church steeple,
As an arrow, glides our coach o’er this,
Perphaps planning to intern us yonder
In the deep abyss.
Ah, for me it was a pleasant moment,
For in life I know no such delight
Than to see our glorified policemen
Trembling with fright.
