But when aroused at the trump of doom
Ye shall start, bold kings, from your lowly tomb,
When some bright-wing'd seraph of mercy shall bend
Your stranger eye on the Sinner's friend,
Kneel,—kneel at His throne whose blood was spilt,
And plead for your pale-brow'd bothers' guilt.
THE SWEDISH LOVERS.
Where Dalecarlia's pine-clad hills
Rear high in air the untrodden snow,
Where her scant vales and murmuring rills
A short and sultry summer know.
Where great Gustavus exiled, fled,
And found beneath a covering rude,
Hearts by the noblest impulse led
Of valour, faith, and fortitude,
There still, a virtuous race retain
The simple manners of their sires.
Unchanged by love of sordid gain,
Or stern ambition's restless fires.
And there, where silver Mora flow'd,
In freshness through the changeful wild,
A peasant rear'd his lone abode,
And fair Ulrica was his child.
Untutor'd by the arts that spoil
The soul's integrity was she,
And nurtured in the virtuous toil
Of unpretending poverty.
