"I mark'd no frowns the world's smooth surface wrinkle,
Its mighty space seemed little to my eye;
I saw the stars, like sparks, at distance twinkle,
And wished myself a bird to soar so high.

"I saw the moon behind the hills retiring,
And thought the while--'Oh! would I were but there!'
Then could my eye examine, without tiring,
That radiant thing, how large, how round, how fair.

"Wond'ring, I saw the Sun of God depart,
To slumber in the golden lap of Even;
And, from the East again in beauty dart,
To bathe in crimson all the field of heaven.

"I thought on Him, the Father all-bestowing,
Who made me, and that silver orb, on high,
And all the little stars, that, nightly glowing,
Deck'd, like a row of pearls, the azure sky.

"To Him, with infant piety, I faltered
The prayer my tender mother taught me:
'Oh! gracious God! be it my aim unalter'd
Still to be wise and good, and follow Thee!'

"For her I pray'd, and for my father, too,
My sisters dear, and the community;
The king, whom yet by name alone I knew,
And mendicant that, sighing, totter'd by.

"Those days were matchless sweet; but they are perish'd,
And life is thorny now, and dim, and flat;
Yet rests their memory--deeply--fondly cherish'd;
God! in thy mercy, take not--take not that."[1]

That the placid and serious beauty of Esrom Lake might be enjoyed,
undisturbed, in intimate union and rare purity, some monks of the
Cistercian order built, in days of yore, a monastery in the island, the
ruins of which now alone remain; and it would do the eye good to see the
beautiful spot where these monks raised their dwelling.

On such an evening as the one of which I am now almost a part, a light
might have been seen dancing strangely round the trunk of a beech, the
oak of Denmark. It was no will-o'-the-wisp produced by exhalations of
the earth; for, now it would shine brightly, and at the next moment
vanish, as if it had mingled with the old tree's leaves. Reappearing,
the light would assume an oscillating motion for a short time; then
revolve with such rapidity, that it would seem a continuous circle of
fire; and, at last, as if wearied with its gyrations, burn with the
upward quivering glare of a candle. Suddenly, a slight puffing noise,
like the ignition of a small quantity of gunpowder, stole on the night,
and the beech, without noise, fell withered to the ground. In its stead
st