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It was the first time I had ever seen Eleanore Ulfeld's portrait, and the melancholy smile on her lips seemed to say, "Poet, sing and free from chains which a hard age had cast upon him, for whom to live and to suffer was my happiness!"
Thy virtue was concealed, not so thy failings, Thus did the world thy greatness never know, Yet still love's glorious monument proclaims it, That the best wife from thee would never go. On the Adriatic sea I, in thought, was carried back to Ulfeld's time and the Danish islands.
Before Oehlenschl ger wrote his Dina, which treats of an episode in Ulfeld's life, I was at work on this subject, and wished to bring it on the stage, but it was then feared this would not be allowed, and I gave it up since then I have only written four lines on Ulfeld:
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