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?

[Pg 46]

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,

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