Unnumbered boughs waved floating in the gale.
Imbrown'd with ceaseless toil, a smiling train
Whirl the keen axe, and clear the farther plain,
The intruding trees and scatter'd stems o'erthrow,
And form a grassy theatre below.
A hundred piles beneath the moon's wan beams,
O'er rock and valley shed their lengthening streams;
Three youths at each their joyous station keep,
In festive contest bent to banish sleep,
And strive which first shall see the morn arise
With pale-red streamer waving thro' the skies.
Sequester'd from the rest a shaded dome
Arose, the son of Eric's rural home:
On its low roof the light appear'd to rest,
The last green light that trembled in the west.
Thither, by Heaven impell'd, he took his way,
And sought the spot where Sweden's hero lay.

Meanwhile beneath an oak, ere day was met,
The village-chiefs, a rustic council, met;
Whom ancient custom bade with annual care
The ensuing day's festivities prepare.
Thro' their dark locks cold sigh'd the evening wind;
Their dogs upon the dewy plain reclined
Beside them lay. In their afflicted thought
Each proof of Christiern's fell oppression wrought,
Each deed, each menace: gloomy bodings swell
In every bosom--not a tongue can dwell
On sports, on prizes, or on social games:--
O'er their wide vallies doom'd to hostile flames,