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,
    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! 
    Arouse, and conquer, by my zeal inspired!”

      He spoke, and speaking every bosom fired. 
    From one to one the patriot ardour flows,
    As on the ruffled deep the watery circle grows.

      First rose his generous son, Adolphus named, }
    For martial sports and manly courage famed, }
    A youth, who once in war the palm of honour claimed:  }
    And thus express’d his mind:  “To-morrow’s dawn
    Will see assembled on our spreading lawn