sweet, pleasant Ilse. She flows through the blest Ilse vale, on whose
sides the mountains gradually rise higher and higher, being clad even to
their base with beech-trees, oaks, and the usual shrubs, the firs and
other needle-covered evergreens having disappeared; for that variety of
trees grows preferably upon the "Lower Harz," as the east side of the
Brocken is called in contradistinction to the west side or Upper Harz.
Being in reality much higher, it is therefore better adapted to the
growth of evergreens.

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--