“I WILL give you another picture of Sweden,” said the Moon. “Among dark pine woods, near the melancholy¹ banks of the Stoxen, lies the old convent church of Wreta. My rays glided² through the grating into the roomy vaults³, where kings sleep tranquilly⁵ in great stone coffins⁶. On the wall, above the grave of each, is placed the emblem⁷ of earthly grandeur⁸, a kingly crown; but it is made only of wood, painted and gilt⁹, and is hung on a wooden peg¹⁰ driven into the wall. The worms have gnawed¹¹ the gilded¹² wood, the spider has spun¹³ her web from the crown down to the sand, like a mourning banner, frail¹⁴ and transient as the grief of mortals. How quietly they sleep! I can remember them quite plainly. I still see the bold smile on their lips, that so strongly and plainly expressed joy or grief. When the steamboat winds along like a magic snail¹⁵ over the lakes, a stranger often comes to the church, and visits the burial vault⁴; he asks the names of the kings, and they have a dead and forgotten sound. He glances with a smile at the worm-eaten crowns, and if he happens to be a pious¹⁶, thoughtful man, something of melancholy mingles¹⁷ with the smile. Slumber¹⁸ on, ye dead ones! The Moon thinks of you, the Moon at night sends down his rays into your silent kingdom, over which hangs the crown of pine wood.”