e saw it she fancied her
lover was dead, and instantly set fire to her abode. Hagbarth beheld
the flames; and no longer doubting the constancy of the princess, he
died rejoicing in following her to the other world.--_Trans._]

"Beautiful Soroe, encircled by woods!" thy tranquil, cloistered town
peeps forth from among thy moss-covered trees; the keen bright eyes of
youth gaze from the academy, over the lake, to the busy highway, where
the locomotive's dragon snorts, while it is flying through the wood.
Soroe, thou poet's pearl, that hast in thy custody the honoured dust of
Holberg! like a majestic white swan by the deep lake stands thy
far-famed seat of learning. We fix our eyes on it, and then they
wander in search of the simple star-flower in the wooded ground--a
small house. Pious hymns are chanted there, that echo over the length
and breadth of the land; words are uttered there to which the very
rustics listen, and hear of Denmark's bygone ages. As the greenwood
and the birds' songs belong to each other, so are associated the names
of Soroe and INGEMANN.

To Slagelse! What is the pearl that dazzles us here? The monastery of
Antoorskov has vanished, even the last solitary remaining wing, though
one old relic still exists--renovated and renovated again--a wooden
cross upon the heights above, where, in legendary lore, it is said
that HOLY ANDERS, the warrior priest, woke up, borne thither in one
night from Jerusalem!

Korsoer--there wert thou[9] born, who gave us

"Mirth with melancholy mingled,
In stories of 'Knud Sjaellandsfar.'"

[Footnote 9: Jeus Baggesen.--_Trans._]

Thou master of language and of wit! the old decaying ramparts of the
deserted fortification are now the last visible mementos of thy
childhood's home. When the sun is sinking, their shadows fall upon the
spot where stood the house in which thine eyes first opened on the
light. From these ramparts, looking towards Sprogoes hills, thou
sawest, when thou "wert little,"

"The moon behind the island sink;"

and sang it in undying verse, as afterwards thou didst sing the
mountains of Switzerland; thou, who didst wander through the vast
labyrinth of the world, and found that

"Nowhere do the roses seem so red--
Ah! nowhere else the thorn so small appears,
And nowhere makes the down so soft a bed,
As that where innocence reposed in bygone years!"

Capricious, charming warbler! We will weave a wreath of woodbine. We