myriads rise: 
    He leads the van:  the tyrant shrinks for fear,
    Hides in his native den, and trembles there. 
    This, weary of our present vale of tears,
    Draws back the chain of time five thousand years: 
    Delightful visions swim before his view, }
    Of peaceful pleasures, joys for ever new, }
    When time was young, and mortals were but few:  }
    When man, content, his freedom never sold,
    Nor fear’d for poverty, nor hoped for gold. 
    Joyful he wanders, and expects to see
    Ten centuries of peace and liberty. 
    This seems to meet within some moonlight glade
    His ancient friend, but now an empty shade: 
    The beckoning phantom stretches toward the skies: 
    He strives to follow, and the vision flies. 
    This bold ferocious spirit, madly strong,
    Supporter of his country e’en to wrong,
    Impetuous to extremes, now longs to dart
    The point of vengeance into Christiern’s heart: 
    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,
    And I a captive in these mournful towers? 
    Stockholm once lost, can Sweden yet remain,
    Or freedom linger in her desert plain? 
    Yet, unextinguish’d by the conquering foe,
    Some spark in distant provinces may glow;
    (As the swift lightning, weary of its course,
    On some low distant cloud collects its scatter’d force)
    Prepared ere long to burst in tenfold wrath,
    And dart destruction on the hostile path.