Her rocks and mountains only were the same!

"In toil and danger nurs'd, the peasants cried--
'Hence, mighty victor! o'er the Baltic tide;
To other realms thy noisy projects bear,
Nor vex our humble state with hope and fear:
Whoe'er is master, we are still forgot,
And harmless poverty is still our lot.'
They spoke, and shunn'd me, as a rebel hurl'd
By Heaven's red vengeance from the starry world.
Yet, as they turn'd, a deep, a long-drawn sigh
Deplored their ruined joys and ravish'd liberty:
They wept for blessings once bestow'd in vain,
And mourn'd the good they hoped not to regain.
The venal noble spurn'd me from his board,
Or 'midst his smiles suborn'd the treacherous sword:
While the proud prelate and his titled foe, }
(As reconciled by fellowship in woe) }
Alike resolved no patriot Swede to know. }
All, all was Christiern's--and the haughtiest fear'd
That voice, her peasants late with scorn had heard.
Alone amidst my country's wreck I stood,
A little bark surrounded by the flood,
And hung suspended o'er the rolling wave,
Whose every surge disclosed a gaping grave.
'Tis time to give superfluous toils a close,
And seek the friendly haven of repose.
To foreign realms I fly, a peaceful guest:
Ev'n Denmark's friends will give Gustavus rest,
An exiled youth with cheap protection shade,