The feeble motions of the mountaineer? 
    Is Christiern dazzled with the empty boast
    Of Dalecarlia, and her rugged host? 
    A fiery race, undisciplined and loud,
    They move to war, no army, but a crowd: 
    Hot from the bowl they stagger to the fight,
    And rush impetuous with ungovern’d might. 
    Shall such resist us?  I expect as soon
    A midnight rainbow, or a star at noon. 
    Their quickly muster’d force will quickly yield,
    And quit in momentary flight the field. 
    Or if some deep-mouth’d demagogue should blow
    The flame of war, and bid its fury glow,
    Yet well-told fiction and inventive art
    With milder force can turn the vulgar heart. 
    Rais’d by a breath their swelling clamours rise,
    And with a breath their vain opinion dies.” 
    He spoke; attention sat on every eye,
    And all in silence watch’d their king’s reply.

      “Sees not my Trollio thro’ the thin disguise,
    Form’d only to deceive Ernestus’ eyes? 
    Vers’d in the changeful temper of mankind,
    From day to day I watch’d his varying mind;
    I saw, where’er he roved, unsettled thought
    In his weak mind a storm of passion wrought;
    At length, this morn, he cast a scowling eye
    Upon his prince, and pass’d disdainful by. 
    This theme, I knew, the moody youth would fire,
    And rouse to rage his long collected ire. 
    Enough of this; a weightier care demands
    Our keen reflection, and our active hands. 
    While here we feast, increasing dangers lower,
    And artful Frederic shakes my tottering power. 
    Impatient of their lawful monarch’s sway
    Full twenty towns sedition’s flag display. 
    Th’ ambitious brother of my martial sire
    In every bosom fans the growing fire: 
    His throne he rais’d on Jutland’s faithless coast,
    Thence o’er the country spread his factious host. 
    Each day, each hour, the ripening tumult grows,
    And discord’s torch with added fuel glows. 
    Ev’n now, perhaps, their midnight council wait
    ’Till their wise chief shall close some dark debate. 
    Of this let Trollio tell:  my anxious breast,
    Oft worn with thought, demands its wonted rest;
    And thro’ yon western window’s chequer’d height,
    The setting planets shoot a ruddier light.’ 
    He spoke; departing thro’ the unfolded gate
    The long procession glides in lordly state;
    Then each, with eyes in balmy slumber closed,
    From the day’s revels and its cares reposed.

      Among the ruffians that, allured by gain,
    Lurk’d round the dwellings of the royal Dane,
    The horrid eminence a Swede might claim,
    A lawless wretch—­Olaus was his name: 
    His name, with darkest brand exalted high,
    Glared on the towering pitch of infamy. 
    Twice, o’er his head