Seventh Evening"Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest of firs
and beeches, and fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of
nightingales visit it every spring. Close beside it is the sea, the
ever-changing sea, and between the two is placed the broad
high-road. One carriage after another rolls over it; but I did not
follow them, for my eye loves best to rest upon one point. A Hun's
Grave lies there, and the sloe and blackthorn grow luxuriantly
among the stones. Here is true poetry in nature.
"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will
tell you what I heard there last evening and during the
"First, two rich landed proprietors came driving by.
'Those are glorious trees!' said the first. 'Certainly; there are
ten loads of firewood in each,' observed