Fill the dark bosom of the dreary grave,
Tho' Sweden's sons no earthly hope retain,
Tho' not one spark of ancient fire remain,
Tho' hostile banners crowd her blazing sky,
And stretch'd in dust her smoking castles lie:
Yet, Lord of all! from ruin's blackening ware,
Thy arm is till omnipotent to save:
Thy arm can stop the whirlwind's rushing breath,
And light with hope the funeral shades of death!

"The gloom dissolves! and Sweden's glories old
With added lustre to my sight unfold;
He comes! the doom'd deliverer, from afar,
Gathers his rushing thousands to the war!
His generous might uniting factions greet,
And crush'd oppression groans beneath his feet:
From each bright year successive glories spring,
And shouting millions hail a patriot king!

"For me--these joys assured, in calm repose,
With trembling hope, I wait my end of woes.
Long vers'd in sufferings, I no more complain,
Nor shall one tear my former patience stain.
Long, long, has time, slow rolling, swept away
The dear companions of my earlier day;
So long, that memory scarce their names retains,
And blank oblivion o'er my bosom reigns.
Ernestus, now, alone sustains their part,
(Loved more than all) within this widow'd heart:
And thou, my God, wilt hear my prayers, and spread