A
chill damp wind, and a barren land;
The chaise jolts through the mire;
But, ringing and singing, I seem to hear:
"Sun, thou accusing fire!"
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'Twas
a ballad my old nurse often sang,
On a tale of murder founded;
The burden was, "Sun, thou accusing fire!"
Like a bugle call it sounded.
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The
murderer lived in mirth and glee,
And slept on an easy pillow,
Till at last in the wood they found him dead,
Hanged high on a hoary willow.
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By
the sun convicted, the murderer fell
Beneath the avenger's ire.
Ottilia, dying, to heaven had screamed,
"Sun, thou accusing fire!"
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And
whenever I think of that stirring song,
And how the burden moved me,
I remember my nurse's wrinkled face,
And how the dear soul loved me.
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Near
Münster born, she was quite a mine
Of ghostly tales and gory,
And many a folksong, too, could sing,
And legend and ancient story.
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How
my heart would beat when she told me the woes
Of the princess, captive holden,
Who sat alone on a desolate waste,
Her tresses shining golden!.
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From
morn till night she herded geese,
And when she took her late way
Toward the town and had homed her flock,
She would pause beside the gateway.
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The
head of the horse was nailed above,
Who had borne her, and shared her danger,
When she left her happy home to dwell
In that cruel land, a stranger.
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"O
Falada!" oft the maid would sigh,
"That thou shouldst be hanging yonder!"
And the horse would answer, "Alack the day,
That hither thou didst wander! "
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"If
my mother knew," the maid would mourn,
"That thus we pine and languish !"
And the head would answer sadly down,
"Her heart would break for anguish!"
