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"How art thou changed, oh fate! since smiling Time
Bore on his noiseless wings my youthful prime!—
By my paternal castle-gate reclined,
I caught the murmurs of the evening wind;
Or, leaning o'er the rampire's battled height,
Cast my young eye, with ever-new delight,
O'er rocks, o'er vallies rich with many a flower,
The lake blue-glistening, and the snowy tower:
While my sire joy'd on days long past to dwell,
How Haquin triumph'd, or how Birger fell—
'That land,' he said, 'thy gallant fathers won
From realms that glow beneath a brighter sun.
Their beacons blazing on each snow-clad height,
The yelling sons of Odin rush'd to fight,
And rent the eagles of invading Rome,
Whose power had changed a hundred nations' doom.
In vain the Empress of the Northern Zone,
With arts on arts high piled her ill-gained throne:
Stern Engelbert trod Usurpation down,
And from the thirteenth Eric tore the crown.
Yet may my country fall—earth's works decay,
And heaven's high laws expect the annulling day.
"While yet a youth, by venturous hope impell'd,
Thro' foreign climes my devious course I held;
And came at last, where high in ether shine
The golden towers of sceptred Constantine.
There Palæologus the kingdom sway'd,
And willing Greece his mild commands obey'd.
I saw the town with antique splendours crown'd,
The martial force, the crowded ports around,
The peopled fields, with waving harvests fair,
And deem'd, security and peace were there.
"Onward I pass'd in youthful ardour bold,
'Till o'er the changeful earth four suns had roll'd,
When Stockholm's towers and Meler's native stream,
Of every vision, every thought the theme,
Recall'd my steps.—Returning thence, I saw
Byzantium sunk beneath a victor's law:
O'er the high walls barbaric ensigns wave,
Red with the recent carnage of the brave:
On quarter'd camps the sun his red beam flings;
Thro' night's dim arch the shrill-toned Ezzau rings;
Buried in dust the Christian altars lie,
And exiled Science seeks another sky.
"Thus, Sweden, mayst thou fall! in ruin lost,
Each hope of aid by swift destruction cross'd;
Thy blazing domes may feed a tyrant's ire,
Thy shrines; unwilling, burn with Danish fire;
Thy latest king, like Constantine, in vain
May join his slaughtered subjects on the plain!—
Handmaid of Science, and by Science fed,
Each vice already rears its blooming head:
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