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A STRING OF PEARLS |
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fully guarded home of intellect, enlivening and giving life. The world round about shines through the eyes into the unfathomable depths of the soul. The idiots' home, encompassed with human love, is a holy place, a conservatory for the pining plants, which shall at some time be transplanted and bloom in the garden of God. Here the weakest in intellect are now assembled, where at one time the greatest and most powerful minds met, exchanged ideas, and were lifted upward—and the soul's flame still mounts upwards in ' The Cottage of Philemon and Baucis.'
The town of the royal tombs beside Hroar's well, the old Roskilde, lies before us ! The slender spires of the cathedral towers soar above the low-built town, and mirror themselves in Isefiord. One grave only will we search for here, and regard it in the sheen of the pearl ; it is not that of the great Queen Margaret—no, within the churchyard, close to whose white wall we fly past, is the grave ; a common stone is laid over it; the master of the organ, the reviver of Danish romance, lies here. The old traditions became melodies in our soul; we learned that where ' The clear waves rolled,' ' there dwelt a king in Leire ! ' Roskilde, the burial place of kings! in thy pearl will we look at the simple grave, where on the stone is carved a lyre and the name of Weyse.
Now we come to Sigersted near the town of Ringsted ; the river-bed lies low ; the golden corn grows where Hagbarth's boat put in to the bank, not far from the maiden-bower of Signe. Who does not know the story of Hagbarth, who was hanged in the oak, and Little Signe's bower which stood in flames ; the legend of strong love !
' Lovely Soro surrounded by woods ! ' the quiet cloister-town peeps out between the moss-grown trees ; with the glance of youth it looks out from the academy over the lake to the world's highway, and hears the engine's dragon puff whilst it flies through the wood. Soro, thou pearl of poetry, which preserves the dust of Holberg. Like a great white swan beside the deep woodland lake lies thy palace of learning, and near to it shines, like the white star-wort in the woods, a little house to which our eyes turn ; from it pious psalms sound through the land, words are uttered in it, even the peasant listens to them and learns of vanished |
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