“What help, what hope to Sweden now remains? 
    Imperial Charles with kindred power sustains
    Her fell oppressor:  his o’erwhelming hosts
    Awe the wide North, and deluge Europe’s coasts;
    Nor could our forces Pavia’s victor brave,
    Tho’ the fierce Dane were left without a slave. 
    Still arm’d for battle, watchful Norbi sweeps
    With many a prow her subjugated deeps. 
    Dark Trollio, deep in all the craft of hell,
    Who with one art a hundred hosts might quell,
    Conducts her foes:  his active prudence schools
    The veteran leaders, and their courage rules. 
    Unnumber’d legions swarm thro’ all her coast,
    And scarce the land supports its conquering host. 
    Experienced Otho o’er the troops presides,
    And parts their plunder, and their fury guides. 
    Her trembling people, as when winds conspire
    To wrap some capital in clouds of fire,
    Now here, now there, for hopeless succour fly,
    Or, chill’d with dread, in pale submission lie. 
    Ev’n Dalecarlia’s fierce untutored train
    In arms a sullen slow defence maintain,
    Nor meet the foe; but from their summits dare
    His coming steps, and menace useless war. 
    Soon will the hostile steel, wide-conquering, mow
    Their strength, and Sweden’s last defence lie low. 
    No more is left to fate:  the fix’d decree
    Stands on the tablets of eternity: 
    And many a towering empire may decay, }
    And many an age roll its slow years away, }
    Ere Freedom light again her once-extinguished ray. }

      “Away with vain regrets, and useless tears! 
    One labour more, one final task appears;
    From all my joys with calmness to depart,
    The last brave effort of a hero’s heart: 
    The smiles of partial Conscience to enjoy,
    Since erring Hope no longer can decoy,
    And, high on Resolution’s pinions borne,
    Look down on fate, and all its evils scorn. 
    Yes—­o’er my head whatever sun may roll,
    Scorch’d at the line, or freezing at the pole,
    Still will I guard, untired, some righteous cause,
    Still shield some country’s violated laws;
    And many a joy, that Christiern cannot taste,
    Shall cheer Gustavus thro’ misfortune’s waste. 
    Enough for me, with honour to perform
    My destined course, and face the allotted storm;
    That done, who will may snatch the wreath of fame: 
    Oblivion, close for ever on my name! 
    The souls of heroes shall frequent my stone,
    In torrents buried, or with moss o’ergrown,
    And, while all else forget me, shall proclaim
    To kindred spirits their Gustavus’ name.

      “Ye faithful warriors, fearless hearts, farewell! 
    Who fought with me, and for your country fell! 
    O’er your cold dust I wept not; hurrying war
    Forbade all pause.—­Yet, oh! whatever star,
    Sacred to patriot worth, and valour’s crown, }
    Contain you now,—­from heaven’s bright noon look down, }
    Visit an exile’s dreams, and blunt misfortune’s frown! }