Once Saga sat, and on her shield engraved
Each act of virtue generous, good, and great:
Of graver and of buckler now bereaved,
She pines, unconscious of the world’s debate:
The fond devotion to the public weal,
The scenes of Nidaros and Leir in vain
Crowd fore her eyes, and to her sense appeal:
The heron of oblivion clouds her brain;
Self-interest views the oak and laurel with disdain.
Sage Mimer griev’d the world’s mischance to know,