It is impossible to describe the merriment, simplicity, and charm with which the Ilse leaps down over the fantastically shaped rocks which rise in her path, so that the water strangely whizzes or foams in one place. amid rifted rocks, and in another pours forth in perfect arches through a thousand crannies, as if from a giant watering-pot, and then, lower down, trips away again over the pebbles like a merry maiden. Yes, the old legend is true; the Ilse is a princess, who, in the full bloom of youth, runs laughing down the mountain side. How her white foam garment gleams in the sunshine! How her silvered scarf flutters in the breeze! How her diamonds flash! The high beech-trees gaze down on her like grave fathers secretly smiling at the capricious self-will of a darling child; the white birch-trees nod their heads like delighted aunts, who are, however, anxious at such bold leaps; the proud oak looks on like a not over-pleased uncle, who must pay for all the fine weather; the birds joyfully sing their applause; the flowers on the bank whisper, "Oh, take us with thee, take us with thee, dear sister!" But the merry maiden may not be withheld, and she leaps onward and suddenly seizes the dreaming poet, and there streams over me a flower-rain of ringing gleams and flashing tones, and my senses are lost in all the beauty and splendor, and I hear only the voice, sweet pealing as a flute-- I am the Princess Ilse, And dwell in Ilsenstein; Come with me to my castle, Thou shalt be blest--and mine! With ever-flowing fountains I'll cool thy weary brow; Thou'lt lose amid their rippling The cares which grieve thee now. 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.