Gustavus Vasa / and other poems

by William Sidney Walker

"He spoke no more. O'er my astonish'd soul
I felt a flood of high emotions roll:
Toss'd on the mighty stream of future time,
My young heart shook with ecstasies sublime!

"Oh, look not from thy skies, lamented shade,
Nor view that land to misery betray'd:
If ignorance can cloud immortal sight,
Be Sweden's fortunes wrapp'd in tenfold night!
Thou saw'st not Devastation sweep her shore,
Her forests smoke, her rivers roll in gore;
Thou saw'st not half her woes. Her senate low,
Thou thought'st her people would revenge the blow;
And hope shone kindling in thy dying eye,
That some new sun would rise to light her starless sky.—
'Twas then, when Christiern thought the axe too slow,
And watch'd with eager transport every blow,
And drank each murmur that to death consign'd
The noblest, wisest, bravest of mankind,—
When ev'n the gazing crowd was doom'd to feel
The fury of his yet unsated steel,—
'Twas then thou met thy fate,—unshared by me!
Thou fell'st, and with thee Sweden's liberty!
Thy spouse, thy daughter, wrapp'd in fetters lie;
Thy son, self-exiled, quits his native sky!"—

He paused, and starting from the verdant ground
With hurried footsteps paced the forests round,
Stung with fierce grief, 'till the full tide of woes
Subsiding sunk, and calmer thoughts arose.

While yet he roams beneath the shady groves,
And tears gush forth at every step he roves;
Sleep's humid vapours lessening on his eyes,
Ernestus rose, and mark'd the changing skies.
And now a furze-clad eminence he found,
That wide o'erlook'd the immensity of ground:
From this, with eye insatiate, he admires
Woods, hamlets, fields, and awe-commanding spires.
And seeks where first to steer his fateful flight,
Safe under covert of the quiet night.
Wide to the left the blue-tinged river roll'd,
And faintly tipped with eve's departing gold,
The village rose: half-shaded, on the right
A sloping hill appeared to bound the sight:
From its hoar summit to the midmost vale,
Unnumbered boughs waved floating in the gale.
Imbrown'd with ceaseless toil, a smiling train
Whirl the keen axe, and clear the farther plain,
The intruding trees and scatter'd stems o'erthrow,
And form a grassy theatre below.
A hundred piles beneath the moon's wan beams,
O'er rock and valley shed their lengthening streams;
Three youths at each their joyous station keep,
In festive contest bent to banish sleep,
And strive which first shall see the morn arise
With pale-red streamer waving thro' the skies.
Sequester'd from the rest a shaded dome
Arose, the son of Eric's rural home:
On its low roof the light appear'd to rest,
The last green light that trembled in the west.
Thither, by Heaven impell'd, he took his way,
And sought the spot where Sweden's hero lay.

Meanwhile beneath an oak, ere day was met,
The village-chiefs, a rustic council, met;
Whom ancient custom bade with annual care
The ensuing day's festivities prepare.
Thro' their dark locks cold sigh'd the evening wind;
Their dogs upon the dewy plain reclined
Beside them lay. In their afflicted thought
Each proof of Christiern's fell oppression wrought,
Each deed, each menace: gloomy bodings swell
In every bosom—not a tongue can dwell
On sports, on prizes, or on social games:—
O'er their wide vallies doom'd to hostile flames,
O'er their devoted domes, their eyes they throw,
Dimm'd with the rising tear that dares not flow.
At length a veteran chief, Olafsen named,
In early youth for fiery valour famed,
By labour unimpaired, unchilled by age,
And still in battle more than counsel sage—
At length Olafsen rose, and darting round
His eyes, where rage and resolution frown'd,
"Arouse!" he cried, "delay were madness here!
Let all who dare in arms, in arms appear!
Enough our eyes have track'd the conquering foe,
And in calm torpor watch'd each new o'erthrow!
Yon troop of peasants, ignorantly gay,
Who waste in careless sports the passing day,
Soon shall behold the waving sheets of fire,
Sent from their peaceful domes, to heaven aspire.
Each year, each month, new towns with ruin smoke,
And province after province feels the yoke.
Already on our conquer'd castle's height
The Danish watchfires redden all the night,
Soon, soon, their inroads will our fate decide—
Haste, let us spread th' eventful tidings wide,
Arm every hand, provoke the lingering fight;
And woe to him, that joys not at the sight!
By this dread tree, which many an age has stood
Unshaken, and survived the subject wood,
Which never pruner's steel has dared invade,
Nor venturous woodman lopp'd the hallow'd shade;
By this dread tree I swear, no peace to know,
'Till conqueror, captive, or in death laid low!
Arouse, and conquer, by my zeal inspired!"

He spoke, and speaking every bosom fired.
From one to one the patriot ardour flows,
As on the ruffled deep the watery circle grows.

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