Firmly bricked in the earth stands the mold, fired from clay. Today the bell shall be. Quickly, workers, be at hand. From the forehead hot the sweat must run, if the creation shall praise the master, but the blessing comes from on-high for the work, that we prepare in earnest, an earnest word is only right; when accompanied by good banter, then work flows lively forth. So with diligence let us observe, what from weak strength does bud, the useless man be scorned, who never views what he brings forth. Exactly that is what adorns a human being, and for that he got his reason, that in his innermost heart he feels, what he creates with his hand. Take wood from the trunk of the fir, but let it be quite dry, that the compressed flame roars into the furnace's chamber. Cooks the copper's soup, quickly bring the tin thereto, that the viscous meal for the bell, floweth in the manner right. What within the dam's deep pit was built by hand with fire's help, in the towers bell floor high up loudly will proclaim of us. Endure it will in later days and touch many a human ear and with the grieving will lament and join its voice to the service's choir. What down below for Earth's son the changing destinies will bring, that beats on the metallic crown, which edifyingly passes it on. White bubbles I now see burst, well! The masses are in flow. Let the salt of ashes permeate it, that accelerates the casting. From foam too the mixture must be free, that from the pure metal pure and full the voice may sound. Because with the festive sound of joy she greets the well-beloved child on his life's first walk, which he begins in the arms of sleep; for him in the womb of time the black and the lighter lots still rest, mother-love's tender worries guard his golden morning. - The years flee arrow-swiftly. From the girl the boy proudly tears himself, he storms wildly into life, measures the world with his walking stick. A stranger, he returns to his father's house, and splendidly, in youth's full shine, as an apparition from the heights of heaven, with modest, bashful cheeks he sees the young woman now before him. Immediately a nameless yearning clenches the young man's heart, he wanders in confusion, his eyes break out in tears, he flees the brothers' wild ranks. Blushing he follows her tracks and is made blissful by her greeting, in the meadows the prettiest he seeks, with which to decorate his love. Oh! Tender yearning, sweet hoping, first Love's golden time, the eye can see the heavens open, the heart luxuriates in bliss, oh! That she would green eternally, the beautiful time of that young love! Look how the pipes are browning! This little rod I'll now dip in, if we see it re-appear all glazed, it'll will be ready for the cast. Now, workers, quick! Test the mixture for me, to see whether the brittle and the soft for a good sign did combine. Because where austerity and tenderness, where strength and mildness paired, there'll always be appealing timbre. Therefore test, who wants to bind himself forever, whether heart will find right heart. The elation is short, the remorse is long. Lovely in the curls of the bride, the bridal wreath does play, when the bright church bells invite to the splendour of the feast. Alas! Life's most beautiful feast will end the may of life too soon, with the bridal dress, the veil the beautiful illusion is torn. The passion flees! Love must endure, the flower wilts, the fruit must grow. The man must go out into hostile life, must work and strive and plant and produce, calculate, gather, must wager and risk, to hunt for fortune. There streams to him the endless gift, the warehouse fills with precious goods, the rooms grow, the house expands.And inside rules the modest housewife, the children's mother, and reigns wisely in the domestic circle, and teaches the girls, and guides the boy, and stirs without end the industrious hands, and multiplies the gains with orderly mind. And fills with treasures the fragrant chests, nd winds on the purring spindle the thread, and collects in the cleanly smoothed shelves, the shimmering wool, the snow-whitened linen, and adds to the good the gleam and the shine, and rests not at all. And with delighted glance the father from the house's far-seeing gable counts his flowering fortune, sees the towering trunks of the posts and the barns' filled rooms and the warehouses bent with blessing, and the grain fields' moving waves, boasts with a proud mouth: Firmly, as the solid ground, defying the might of misfortune with the splendour of the house he stands! But with the powers of destiny it's not possible to weave a lasting union, and misfortune moves quickly. Well! Now the casting can begin, beautifully jagged is the fracture. But before we let it run, pray a godly verse! Push out the plug! God protect this house! Smoking and in an arc it's shooting forth in fiery-brown waves. Benevolent is the fire's might, if the human being tames and watches it, for what he builds, what he creates, he owes to this heavenly power, but terrible this heavenly power is, if she, casting off her shackles, strides along on tracks her own this free daughter of nature. Beware when she is let loose growing without hindrance through the much populated by-streets rolls the monstrous blaze! Because the elements hate the structure created by human hand. Out of the cloud the blessing pours forth, streams the rain, out of the cloud, aimlessly, flashes lightning's beam! Do you hear the yammering high from the tower? That is the storm! Red as blood is the sky, that is not the glow of day! What a turmoil up the streets! Steam is rising! Wavering, the fire's column rises. Through the long row of the street with the speed of wind it grows, boiling as out of oven's maw, the air is glowing, beams are breaking, posts topple, windows shatter, children cry, mothers scurry aimlessly, animals bleat under the rubble, everyone runs, saves, flees, the night is lit as day, through the long chain of hands in competition flies the bucket, arcing high spurt springs, waves of water. Howling comes the storm, which roaringly seeks the flame. Which, crackling into the dry harvest, falls into the granary's rooms, into the dry trees of the rafters, and as if she wanted in a blow tear away from Earth's mass, in powerful headlong flight, she grows into the height of the sky gigantically large! Hopelessly the human being yields to the godly force, idly he watches all his works go down, amazed. Burnt out is this place, the rough bed of wild storms, in the empty window openings lives the horror, and the heaven's clouds look into all from on high. One glance towards the grave of his belongings the human being still sends back - reaches happily then for his walking stick. Whatever the fire's rage has robbed him off, one sweet consolation is left to him, he counts the heads of his loved ones, and look! He is not missing one of them. It's taken up by the Earth, luckily the mold is filled, will it be beautiful when it sees the light of day, so that diligence and skill be paid? If the cast has failed? If the mold has cracked? Alas! Perhaps just while we hope, misfortune has already struck. The dark womb of sacred Earth we trust with the deed of our hands, the sower trusts his seed and hopes that it may sprout into a blessing, by the will of Heaven. Even more precious seed we store grieving in the womb of Earth and hope, that out of the caskets it will blossom to a better lot. From the cathedral, serious and uneasy, the bell sounds funereal song. Gravely, her grieving peals accompany a wanderer on his last journey. Alas! It is the spouse, the precious, Alas! It is the loyal mother, which the black prince of shadows leads away from the arm of her husband, away from the children's tender flock, which she bore him while in bloom, which she on her faithful breast with motherly love watched grow - Alas! the tender bonds of the house are loosened evermore, she now lives in the land of shadows, she who was the mother of the house, now her faithful reign is missing, her care watches no more, in the orphaned place a strange one shall direct, lovelessly. Until the bell cools off, let the heavy labour rest, as in the foliage the bird will play, may all be good unto themselves. When the light of stars does wink, idle of all responsibilities the journeyman hears the vespers toll. The master, always toil he must. The wanderer far away in the wild forest sprightly points his steps towards his hut beloved he calls his home. The sheep are moving, bleating, towards home, and the cattle's broad-headed, smooth herds come lowing, filling the barns they know. Coming in heavily, sways the wagon, grain-laden, gay with colours on the sheaves lies the wreath, and the young folk of the harvesters flies to the dance. Market and streets become quieter, around the light's homely flame the house's people gather, and creakingly the town's gate closes. The Earth covers itself in black, but the secure burgher is not afraid of the night, which horribly wakes the bad, because the eye of the law is watching. Holy orderliness, heaven's daughter blessing-rich, which binds equality freely, easily and happily, which founded the cities' construction, which called in from the wilderness fields the unruly savage, entered people's huts, got them used to manners mild and wove the most precious of all ties, the urge to have a fatherland! Thousands of busy hands stir, help each other in happy union, and in this fiery movement all powers become known. The master stirs and journeyman too within the holy protection of freedom. Everyone enjoys his place, offering defiance to contemptors. Work is the adornment of the burgher, blessing the reward for toil, if dignity honours the king, we are honoured by industriousness of hands. Treasured peace, sweet concord, stay, s tay friendly over our town! May never come the day, where war's rough hordes rampage through this quiet vale, when the sky, which the soft red of the evening paints so lovely, is lit so terribly from the conflagration of villages and towns! Now break this construction for me, its purpose it has served, so that heart and eye may feast on a well-created construct. Swing your hammer, swing, 'til the coat cracks, if the bell is to rise, the mold must be broken into pieces. The master may break the mold with knowing hand, if the time is right, but beware when in fiery, spouting brooks the glowing ore liberates itself! Blindly raging, with the roar of thunder it bursts the broken house, and as out of the maw of Hell it spews out, igniting destruction; where brute force rules mindlessly, no design can emerge, when the people liberate themselves, then wellbeing can't thrive. Beware, when in the cities' womb the fire-tinder has accumulated, the citizenry, breaking its chains, frightfully seizes arms to help itself! Then tears at the ropes of the bell the uprising, that she clamors howlingly, and, only meant to sound in times of peace, the password gives to violence. Freedom and Equality! one hears proclaimed, the peaceful citizen is driven to arms, the streets are filling, the halls, the vigilante-bands are moving, then women change into hyenas and make a plaything out of terror, though it twitches still, with panthers teeth, they tear apart the enemy's heart. Nothing is holy any longer, loosened are all ties of righteousness, the good gives room to bad, and all vices freely rule. Dangerous it is to wake the lion, ruinous is the tiger's tooth, but the most terrible of all the terrors, that is the human being when crazed. Woe to those, who lend to the eternally-blind enlightenment's heavenly torch! It does not shine for him, it only can ignite and puts to ashes towns and lands. od has given me joy! ook! As a golden star out of the husk, shining and even, the metal kernel peels itself. From the crown to the mouth it gleams like sunshine, the crest's nice panels too praise the experienced builder. Come in! Come in! All journeymen, close the circle, that, christening her, we consecrate the bell, concordia its name shall be, to harmony, to heartening union the loving community shall gather. And this from now on be its calling, for which the master did create her! High above the lowly life of Earth she shall in the blue tent of heaven float, thunder's neighbour, and border on the world of stars, shall be a voice from on high, like the stars' bright host, who as they wander praise their creator and pilot the circle of the year. Only eternal and serious things be her metallic mouth's devotion, and hourly with the swift wings may she touch fleetingly the time, to destiny she may lend her tongue, herself heartless and without compassion, may she accompany in her swinging, the ever-changing play of life. And as the sound fades in the ear, that so mightily issues from her mouth, so she may teach, that nothing lasts, that all things earthly fade away. Therefore now, with the strength of the rope lift the bell out of her tomb for me, that into the realm of sound she may rise, into the air of heaven. Pull, pull, lift! She's moving, floats, may she mean joy for this city, peace shall be her first sounding.
 
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