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a sprightly voice, "Good night, Herr von Spinoza!"

He stood before the house; the door shut behind him. With heavy sighs passed care-laden married couples who endeavored to enjoy the holiday evening in the fresh air; lovers passed with quicker steps and livelier conversation; sailors sauntered on and merrily sang and chorused the old Dutch ballad:

"To eastern lands will I journey,
There dwells my sweetest love;
Over hill, and over valley,
Far over the moorland,
There dwells my sweetest love.

"The sun from sight has sunk under;
The stars now blink out so clear;
I know that I with my loved one,
Far over the moorland,
Was in that orchard so near.

"The garden door is fastened.
And no one can come in,
But the nightingales only,
Far over the moorland,
Who fly from far to come in.

"We must the nightingales fasten
Their heads to their feet close to,
That they may tell naught to others,
Far over the moorland,
Of what two sweet lovers there do.