In my white arms reposing,
    And on my snow-white breast,
  Thou’lt dream of old, old legends,
    And sing in joy to rest.

  I’ll kiss thee and caress thee,
    As in the ancient day
  I kissed the Emperor Henry,
    Who long has passed away.

  The dead are dead and silent,
    Only the living love;
  And I am fair and blooming—­
    Dost feel my wild heart move!

  And as my heart is beating,
    My crystal castle rings,
  Where many a knight and lady
    In merry measure springs.

  Silk trains are softly rustling,
    Spurs ring from night to morn,
  And dwarfs are gaily drumming,
    And blow the golden horn.

  As round the Emperor Henry,
    My arms round thee shall fall;
  I held his ears—­he heard not
    The trumpet’s warning call.

We feel infinite happiness when the outer world blends with the world of our own soul, and green trees, thoughts, the songs of birds, gentle melancholy, the blue of heaven, memory, and the perfume of herbs, run together in sweet arabesques.  Women best understand this feeling, and this may be the cause that such a sweet incredulous smile plays around their lips when we, with scholastic pride, boast of our logical deeds—­how we have classified everything so nicely into subjective and objective; how our heads are provided, apothecary-like, with a thousand drawers, one of which contains reason, another understanding, the third wit, the fourth bad wit, and the fifth nothing at all—­that is to say, the Idea.

As if wandering in dreams, I scarcely observed that we had left the depths of the Ilsethal and were now again climbing uphill.  This was steep and difficult work, and many of us lost our breath; but, like our late lamented cousin, who now lies buried at Moelln, we thought in advance of the descent, and were all the merrier in consequence.  Finally we reached the Ilsenstein.

This is an enormous granite rock, which rises boldly on high from out a glen.  On three sides it is surrounded by high woody hills, but on the fourth, the north side, there is an open view, and we gazed past the Ilsenburg and the Ilse lying below us, far away into the low lands.  On the towerlike summit of the rock stands a great iron cross, and in case of need there is also room here for four human feet.  And as Nature, through picturesque position and form, has adorned the Ilsenstein with fantastic charms, so legend likewise has shed upon it a rosy shimmer.  According to Gottschalk, “People say that there once stood here an enchanted castle, in which dwelt the rich and fair Princess Ilse, who still bathes every morning in the Ilse.  He who is fortunate enough to hit upon the exact time and place will be led by her into the rock where her castle lies and receive a royal reward.”  Others narrate a pleasant legend of the lovers of the Lady Ilse and of the Knight of Westenberg, which has been romantically sung by one of our most noted poets in the Evening Journal.  Others again say that it was the Old Saxon Emperor Henry who had a royal good time with the water-nymph Ilse in her enchanted castle.