and occasionally a chorus, plaintive and wild, such as I had never heard before, the words of which I did not understand, but which, at the present time, down the long avenue of years, seem in memory’s ear to sound like ‘Horam, coram, dago.’  Several robust fellows were near me, some knee-deep in water, employed in hauling the seine upon the strand.  Huge fish were struggling amidst the meshes—­princely salmon,—­their brilliant mail of blue and silver flashing in the morning beam; so goodly and gay a scene, in truth, had never greeted my boyish eye.

And, as I gazed upon the prospect, my bosom began to heave, and my tears to trickle.  Was it the beauty of the scene which gave rise to these emotions?  Possibly; for though a poor ignorant child—­a half-wild creature—­I was not insensible to the loveliness of nature, and took pleasure in the happiness and handiworks of my fellow-creatures.  Yet, perhaps, in something more deep and mysterious the feelings which then pervaded me might originate.  Who can lie down on Elvir Hill without experiencing something of the sorcery of the place?  Flee from Elvir Hill, young swain, or the maids of Elle will have power over you, and you will go elf-wild!—­so say the Danes.  I had unconsciously laid myself down upon haunted ground; and I am willing to imagine that what I then experienced was rather connected with the world of spirits and dreams than with what I actually saw and heard around me.  Surely the elves and genii of the place were conversing, by some inscrutable means, with the principle of intelligence lurking within the poor uncultivated clod!  Perhaps to that ethereal principle the wonders of the past, as connected with that stream, the glories of the present, and even the history of the future, were at that moment being revealed!  Of how many feats of chivalry had those old walls been witness, when hostile kings contended for their possession!—­how many an army from the south and from the north had trod that old bridge!—­what red and noble blood had crimsoned those rushing waters!-what strains had been sung, ay, were yet being sung, on its banks!—­some soft as Doric reed; some fierce and sharp as those of Norwegian Skaldaglam; some as replete with wild and wizard force as Finland’s runes, singing of Kalevala’s moors, and the deeds of Woinomoinen!  Honour to thee, thou island stream!  Onward may thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant future!  Flow on, beautiful one!—­which of the world’s streams canst thou envy, with thy beauty and renown?  Stately is the Danube, rolling in its might through lands romantic with the wild exploits of Turk, Polak, and Magyar!  Lovely is the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old keeps of robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from picturesque crags and airy headlands!—­yet neither the stately Danube nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame,