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 _déjeûner dînatoire_, 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. And whene'er the music hushes, Soft the pine-tree murmurs creep; Far away a cataract rushes-- Look, our noble king's asleep! Meanwhile through the kingdom bounding Rules the dog as minister, Till his bark from cliffs rebounding Echoes to the sleeper's ear. Yawning syllables he utters-- "Ruling is too hard a task. Were I but at home," he mutters, "With my queen 'tis all I'd ask. "On her arm my head reposes Free from care, how happily! And her loving glance discloses Kingdom wide enough for me."[53]