Weak and faint with long groping in the dark woods, and bleeding, _Heinrich_ reaches the mountain top and there beholds _Rautendelein_, the spirit of freedom, that has allured him on in the work which he strove--"in one grand Bell, to weld the silver music of thy voice with the warm gold of a Sun-holiday. It should have been a master-work! I failed, then wept I tears of blood." _Heinrich_ returns to his faithful wife _Magda_, his children, and his village friends--to die. The bell that sank into the mere was not made for the heights--it was not fit to wake the answering echoes of the peaks! _Heinrich._ * * * * * 'Twas for the valley--not the mountain-top! I choose to die. The service of the valleys Charms me no longer, ... since on the peak I stood. Youth--a new youth--I'd need, if I should live: Out of some rare and magic mountain flower Marvelous juices I should need to press-- Heart-health, and strength, and the mad lust of triumph, Steeling my hand to work none yet have dreamed of! _Rautendelein_, the symbol of youth and freedom, the vision of new strength and expression, wakes _Heinrich_ from his troubled sleep, kisses him back to life, and inspires him with faith and courage to work toward greater heights. _Heinrich_ leaves his wife, his hearth, his native place, and rises to the summit of his ideal, there to create, to fashion a marvel bell whose iron throat shall send forth The first waking peal Shall shake the skies--when, from the somber clouds That weighed upon us through the winter night, Rivers of jewels shall go rushing down Into a million hands outstretched to clutch! Then all who drooped, with sudden power inflamed, Shall bear their treasure homeward to their huts, There to unfurl, at last, the silken banners, Waiting--so long, so long--to be upraised, * * * * * And now the wondrous chime again rings out, Filling the air with such sweet, passionate sound As makes each breast to sob with rapturous pain. It sings a song, long lost and long forgotten, A song of home--a childlike song of Love, Born in the waters of some fairy well-- Known to all mortals, and yet heard of none! * * * * * And as it rises, softly first, and low, The nightingale and dove seem singing, too; And all the ice in every human breast Is melted, and the hate, and pain, and woe, Stream out in tears. Indeed a wondrous bell, as only those can forge who have reached the mountain top,--they who can soar upon the wings of their imagination high above the valley of the commonplace, above the dismal gray of petty consideration, beyond the reach of the cold, stifling grip of reality,--higher, ever higher, to kiss the sun-lit sky.