Twenty-Eighth Evening"I will give you another picture of Sweden," said the
Moon. "Among dark pine woods, near the melancholy banks of the
Stoxen, lies the old convent church of Wreta. My rays glided
through the grating into the roomy vaults, where kings sleep
tranquilly in great stone coffins. On the wall, above the grave of
each, is placed the emblem of earthly grandeur, a kingly crown; but
it is made only of wood, painted and gilt, and is hung on a wooden
peg driven into the wall. The worms have gnawed the gilded wood,
the spider has spun her web from the crown down to the sand, like a
mourning banner, frail 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
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