In a crimson conflagration
    Roses o’er the tumult rise;
  Giant lilies, white as crystal,
    Shoot like columns to the skies.

  Great as suns, the stars above us
    Gaze adown with burning glow;
  Fill the lilies’ cups gigantic
    With their lights’ abundant flow.

  We ourselves, my little maiden,
    Would be changed more than all;
  Torchlight gleams o’er gold and satin
    Round us merrily would fall.

  Thou thyself would’st be the princess,
    And this hut thy castle high;
  Ladies, lords, and graceful pages
    Would be dancing, singing by.

  I, however, I have conquered
    Thee, and all things, with the word! 
  Serfs and castle—­lo! with trumpet
    Loud they hail me as their Lord!

The sun rose.  The mists flitted away like phantoms at the third crow of the cock.  Again I wandered up hill and down dale, while above me soared the fair sun, ever lighting up new scenes of beauty.  The Spirit of the Mountain evidently favored me, well knowing that a “poetical character” has it in his power to say many a fine thing of him, and on this morning he let me see his Harz as it is not, most assuredly, seen by every one.  But the Harz also saw me as I am seen by few, and there were as costly pearls on my eyelashes as on the grass of the valley.  The morning dew of love wet my cheeks; the rustling pines understood me; their twigs parted and waved up and down, as if, like mute mortals, they would express their joy with gestures of their hands, and from afar I heard beautiful and mysterious chimes, like the sound of bells belonging to some hidden forest church.  People say that these sounds are caused by the cattle-bells, which, in the Harz ring with remarkable clearness and purity.

It was noon, according to the position of the sun, as I chanced upon such a flock, and its shepherd, a friendly, light-haired young fellow, told me that the great hill at whose base I stood was the old, world-renowned Brocken.  For many leagues around there is no house, and I was glad enough when the young man invited me to share his meal.  We sat down to a dejeuner dinatoire, consisting of bread and cheese.  The sheep snatched up our crumbs, while pretty glossy heifers jumped around, ringing their bells roguishly, and laughing at us with great merry eyes.  We made a royal meal, my host appearing to me every inch a king; and as he is the only monarch who has ever given me bread, I will sing his praises right royally: 

  Kingly is the herd-boy’s calling,
    On the knoll his throne is set,
  O’er his hair the sunlight falling
    Gilds a living coronet.

  Red-marked sheep that bleat so loudly
    Are his courtiers cross-bedight,
  Calves that strut before him proudly
    Seem each one a stalwart knight.

  Goats are actors nimbly springing,
    And the cows and warblers gay
  With their bell and flute-notes ringing
    Form the royal orchestra.