O'er their devoted domes, their eyes they throw,
Dimm'd with the rising tear that dares not flow.
At length a veteran chief, Olafsen named,
In early youth for fiery valour famed,
By labour unimpaired, unchilled by age,
And still in battle more than counsel sage--
At length Olafsen rose, and darting round
His eyes, where rage and resolution frown'd,
"Arouse!" he cried, "delay were madness here!
Let all who dare in arms, in arms appear!
Enough our eyes have track'd the conquering foe,
And in calm torpor watch'd each new o'erthrow!
Yon troop of peasants, ignorantly gay,
Who waste in careless sports the passing day,
Soon shall behold the waving sheets of fire,
Sent from their peaceful domes, to heaven aspire.
Each year, each month, new towns with ruin smoke,
And province after province feels the yoke.
Already on our conquer'd castle's height
The Danish watchfires redden all the night,
Soon, soon, their inroads will our fate decide--
Haste, let us spread th' eventful tidings wide,
Arm every hand, provoke the lingering fight;
And woe to him, that joys not at the sight!
By this dread tree, which many an age has stood
Unshaken, and survived the subject wood,
Which never pruner's steel has dared invade,
Nor venturous woodman lopp'd the hallow'd shade;
By this dread tree I swear, no peace to know,
'Till conqueror, captive, or in death laid low!