She steals my cherished flowers, my red-brown ores, My gold, my precious stones, my resinous stores. She serves him like a slave, by night and day. 'Tis he she kisses--us she keeps at bay. Naught stands against him. Ancient trees he fells. The earth quakes at his tread, and all the dells Ring with the echo of his thunderous blows. His crimson smithy furnace glows and shines Into the depths of my most secret mines. What he is up to, only Satan knows! _The Nickelmann._ Brekekekex! Hadst thou the creature slain, A-rotting in the mere long since he had lain-- The maker of the bell, beside the bell. And so when next I had wished to throw the stones, The bell had been my box--the dice, his bones! But even they are powerless to stem the tide of the Ideal: they are helpless In the face of _Heinrich's_ new-born faith, of his burning passion to complete his task, and give voice to the thousand-throated golden peal. _Heinrich_ works and toils, and when doubt casts its black shadow athwart his path, _Rautendelein_ charms back hope. She alone has boundless faith in her Balder,--god of the joy of Life--for he is part of her, of the great glowing force her spirit breathed into the Heinrichs since Time was born--Liberty, redeemer of man. _Heinrich._ I am thy Balder? Make me believe it--make me know it, child! Give my faint soul the rapturous joy it needs, To nerve it to its task. For, as the hand, Toiling with tong and hammer, on and on, To hew the marble and to guide the chisel, Now bungles here, now there, yet may not halt. ... But--enough of this, Still straight and steady doth the smoke ascend From my poor human sacrifice to heaven. Should now a Hand on high reject my gift, Why, it may do so. Then the priestly robe Falls from my shoulder--by no act of mine; While I, who erst upon the heights was set, Must look my last on Horeb, and be dumb! But now bring torches! Lights! And show thine Art! Enchantress! Fill the wine-cup! We will drink! Ay, like the common herd of mortal men, With resolute hands our fleeting joy we'll grip! Our unsought leisure we will fill with life, Not waste it, as the herd, in indolence. We will have music! While _Heinrich_ and _Rautendelein_ are in the ecstasy of their love and work, the spirits weave their treacherous web--they threaten, they plead, they cling,--spirits whose pain and grief are harder to bear than the enmity or menace of a thousand foes. Spirits that entwine one's heartstrings with tender touch, yet are heavier fetters, more oppressive than leaden weights. _Heinrich's_ children, symbolizing regret that paralyzes one's creative powers, bring their mother's tears and with them a thousand hands to pull _Heinrich_ down from his heights, back to the valley.