A whetted dagger in his hand display'd }
He waves in air, and, o'er and o'er survey'd, }
Smiles grimly at the visionary blade. }

"Thrice happy you! for fancy's shadowy power,
Unfailing friend of sorrow's darkest hour,
O'er your dim state a transient gleam can throw,
Like twilight glimmering on a waste of snow!

"But me, condemn'd alone to wake and weep,
My country's doubtful ills forbid to sleep:
Each night the agonizing theme renews,
And bathes my cheek in sorrow's bitterest dews.
Where art thou, Stenon? whose resistless hand
Stretch'd like a shield o'er this deserted land!
Say, does that hand still turn a nation's doom,
Or sleeps its valour in the silent tomb?
Heroes and chieftains! whither are ye fled,
Whose powerful arm collected Sweden led?
I saw you glorious, from the field of fight,
When Denmark shrunk before your stormy might:
And now, perhaps, your buried ashes sleep,
And o'er your honour'd tombs your country's sorrows weep.
Illustrious senators! whose wisdom view'd
Th' approaching storm, and oft its strength subdued:
And thou, young Vasa! once renown'd in war,
Thy country's hope, and freedom's northern star:
Too true, alas! I fear, a tyrant's hand
Has swept your glories from the darken'd land.
Why else these walls resign'd to Christiern's powers,