The _Comet_ foretold is not _yet_ in the sky.
It shines here on earth, tho' deputed from Heav'n;
And remarkably flam'd last year--_Fifty sev'n_.
In _Wodon's_[36] bold figure, three thousand years past,
O'er ancient Germania its lustre it cast.
Next, wearing _Arminius_[37], thy form, it return'd;
And, fatal to _Rome's_ blasted legions, it burn'd.
Now, attended with all the thunders of war,
Our _Prussia's_ great _Frederick_ is that _Blazing Star_!
Heav'ns proxy to nations opprest; but a _Sign_
To tyrants he comes of a vengeance divine.
Eccentric and rapid the north saw him rowl:
(For heroes and stars seem most bright near the pole)
To _Britain_ propitious he sheds forth his rays;
While _Babel's_ lewd _Harlot_, his terrors amaze.
The fierce _Russian Bear_ his splendors affright;
And _Austria's_ proud _Eagle_ now shrinks from his light.
While freedom's glad sons with due warmth he inspires;
The _Lillies_ of _France_ are all scorch'd in his fires.
False _Stockholm_ shall find the _Baltic_ no bar is.
Now at _Vienna_, he'll soon be at _Paris_.
O'er _Ocean_ from _Europe_ his influence hurl'd
Shall animate here, O _George_, thy new world.
Our laws, our religion, our rights he befriends,
And conquest o'er savage invaders portends;
O'er christians miscall'd, who their nature disgrace,
Bely human form, and god's image deface.
Hail, _Living Effulgence_, whose all honour'd name
Shall grace, first of mortals, the annals of fame!
Whose glory shall spread, thro' each age and each clime,
To the final extent of space and of time!
Who the Virtues _Trajan_ and _Titus_ unite;
The victor of empires, and _Mankind's Delight_!
Hail, radiance auspicious, from light's fountain born
Each dark hemisphere to relume and adorn!
To whom if compar'd, other kings all appear,
Like little dim _Sparklers_, round _Cynthia's_ bright sphere.
The wonder of monarchs, a patriot imperial,
Endow'd with a spirit of vigour aetherial!
For worth, less than your's in pale envy's despite,
Old chiefs claim'd to honours celestial a right!
From their funeral piles in flames eagles soar'd;
Earth's heroes grew gods, and dead kings were ador'd.
Defensive, fair justice, he fights in thy cause,
And his sword, lightning pointed, reluctant he draws,
His courage on aggregate perils still grows;
And his triumphs increase from multiply'd foes.
Ye _Caesars_, ye _Bourbons_, ye scourges of God,
Ye saw on the wings of the wind how he rode:
Revere then heav'ns champion, who, charg'd with your doom,
Shall quell the leagu'd hosts of _Gaul_, _Satan_ and _Rome_!
When earth's giant crew, each with manifold hands,
Assaulted _Jove's_ seat, in confederate bands;
Thus _Evius_ asserted the throne of his sire,
And heap'd o'er th' aggressors a mountain of fire!
Ye numberless suns, his kindred, on high,
For six thousand years whom cou'd ye descry;
Whom, like him, have seen of meer mortal birth;
Tho _Alfred_ and _Edward_ once dignify'd earth?
Blush, blush, scepter'd pirates, who trail your faint fire:
Ye meteors, that transiently dazzling expire!
Whose lust of vain pow'r stains the page of your story:
What glow worms ye look, and how lost in his glory?
Blush, butchers, whose banners red massacre shames,
That _Honest_ and _Great_ should bear different names!
Go waste the creation for empire and pelf:
The globe you may win, but _he_ conquers himself!
To spare he subdues; as he sought to defend;
Dire war's his forc'd mean: but fair peace his lov'd end.
Tho' trophies in battles o'er your's he can raise;
Yet these he accounts but a second rate praise.
Who by victories plum'd ne'er thinks it disgrace,
To sigh that they're earn'd by the blood of his race.
The public's first servant, and humble in station;
He found his firm glory on wise legislation.
His country's great father, in blessings most blest,
Who loses his own for the world's peace and rest!
Still only ambitious of fair-won renown,
And olives with laurels to wreath in his crown.
Say poet, philosopher, critick, divine,
What art thou?--Since all, but omniscience is thine.
Self-taught, tho' a king! and now destin'd to prove,
That _Minerva_, like thee, sprang perfect from _Jove_.
Like thee, fam'd for wisdom; like thee for alarms:
The goddess of science, and goddess of arms!
In his words, in his deeds, we read his great heart;
Too gen'rous for fraud, and too wise for mean art.
With aw still reflecting whence all grandeur springs;
And only dependent on thee, King of Kings!
The mate of his vet'rans in each noble feat;
The first in the charge, and the last in retreat,
A statesman and monarch, yet true to his word;
A soldier with honour, more bright than his sword.
Whom pow'r ne'er corrupted; whom learning adorns:
Who, ev'n in idea, court-turpitude scorns:
--Yet why should we wonder, that _this_ he disdains;
When the blood of good _George_ flows rich in his veins?
_Amer. Mag. and Mo. Chron._, I-551, Aug. 1758, Phila.
[Footnote 36: The founder and first legislator of the German
nation, to whom after his deification the fourth day of our
week was consecrated, now contracted from Wodon's day to
Wednesday.]
[Footnote 37: The brave assertor of his country's liberty
against the Roman invasions, who cut to pieces three legions
commanded by _Quintilius Varus_ in the reign of _Augustus
Caesar_.]
MR. VOLTAIRE'S LETTER TO HIS PRUSSIAN MAJESTY.
Translated.
Kind Prince! whom the admiring world must own
By truth and nature form'd to grace a throne:
Whose dawn of empire like the solar ray,
Chears half the _North_ with hopes of lasting day;
Receive the homage which the Muses send,
Their fav'rite thou! their guardian! and their friend!
ARE you enthron'd?... And does your goodness deign
To own your poet, and regard his strain?
O blissful moment! dear auspicious grace!
Does FRED'RICK'S smile my wand'ring steps embrace?
Does his great soul possess'd of wisdom's balm,
(Ever benevolent, and ever calm!)
Leave all the dignity of state behind,
To meet the humble lover of mankind?
And can your hand the royal gift impart
To style me friend of your _distinguish'd_ heart?
Fame says of old, that _Phoebus_ heavenly bright,
O'er the wide world who spreads the living light,
So _Jove_ ordain'd ... his splendid carr resign'd,
To live below and humanize mankind:
No more his brows their wonted rays reveal'd,
A shepherd's form the exil'd god conceal'd;
In _Phrygian_ wilds to an unletter'd race,
He sung with such divinely-pleasing grace,
The savage nation in their softened hearts,
Receiv'd the love of virtue and of arts!
The rudest breasts the strong persuasion felt,
Were taught to think, to reason, and to melt!
Themselves to know, the social tye to own,
And learn they were not made to live alone!
Then every useful science sprung to birth,
And peaceful labour blest the smiling earth:
Men now united lost their antient rage,
Nature rejoic'd and blest her _golden age_;
An _age_ by heav'n design'd for man no more,
Unless a FREDERICK shall _that_ age restore!
It chanc'd as thro' the wood _Apollo_ stray'd,
Ere gathering numbers peopled half the shade;
As near the cooling stream he pass'd the day
And wak'd the golden lyre to wisdom's lay!
Attentive to the sound a _stranger swain_,
His reed attun'd to imitate the strain;
The god well-pleas'd the rustic genius spy'd,
Approv'd his aim, and deign'd to be his guide!
Aided his trembling hands to touch the string,
Whisper'd the words, and shew'd him how to sing!
The swain improving blest the care bestow'd,
Nor in the _master_ yet perceiv'd the _god_:
Nor knew the immortal flame his bosom fir'd,
But like a shepherd lov'd him, and admir'd!
In me, _great prince_, the image stands renew'd,
I feel myself with kindred warmth indu'd;
As to thy praise I tune the conscious lyre,
I ask whence draws my breast the noble fire?
Tell what inspires me, happy people tell?
Beneath my Fred'rick's orient sway who dwell:
From rapid _Rhine_ to silver-streaming _Meine_,
The peaceful subjects of his placid reign?
Or ye on _Prussia's_ amber yielding shore,
Who bless his name, and hail his guardian power!
Yes ... let consenting lands his virtues raise,
And fame with all her tongues repeat his praise!
Whose scepter shall _Astrea's_ rule restore,
And bid dejected MERIT[38] sigh no more.
As once directed by the voice of fame
To _wisdom's King_ the _southern princess_ came;
At FREDERICK'S call ... see ravish'd to obey,
The sons of learning take their chearful way;
To hear _that_ sense which still attention draws;
And bless _that_ goodness which directs his laws;
Close by his throne _Philosophy_ shall smile,
To view her prince approve her children's toil!
While _Science_ joys to see his kind regards
Inspire the muse, his bounty still rewards;
Not distant far, calm _Charity_ shall stand,
Stretching to _Piety_ her social hand:
_Justice_ shall banish _arbitrary might_,
And _Commerce_ chearful _Plenty_ shall invite:
But _Goodness_ chief ... in form angelic drest,
(Such as she lives in FREDERICK'S royal breast!)
Beneath her wings shall bid the worthy find
A shelter from the storms that vex mankind;
The friend of truth, by fraud or malice hurl'd
Through all the mazes of a faithless world.
Whom envy persecutes and bigots hate,
Shall here enjoy an undisturb'd retreat;
With HIM, who scorns the empty pride or blood,
But shares his grandeur with the _wise_ and _good_!
What tho' his prudence guards the chance of war,
His mildness eyes the mischief from afar!
What tho' his arms might _Caesar's_ laurels find,
The peaceful olive suits his greater mind:
Yet safe in all events the storm he views,
In peace or war ... the darling of the Muse!
In either state, alike insur'd success,
Since all his aim is to defend and bless!
Yet while impending clouds their darkness spread,
He arms for war ... but arms without a dread!
No _giant forms_[39] compose a vain parade,
No glittering _figures_ of the _warrior-trade_:
Valour he courts without the pomp of art,
And rises on the service of the heart:
He boasts it all his glory to be just
(A pride beyond the title of _August_!)
Which time secures, the most impartial friend,
And guards his _name_ till nature fells her end!
So when beneath the curs'd _Caesarian_ race
_Rome_ felt the horrors of her first disgrace;
Great _Trajan_ rose with every virtue blest,
To give the weary world the sweets of rest:
No blood, no conquest mark'd his spotless reign,
'Twas goodness form'd th' inviolable chain;
E'en _India's_ Kings receiv'd the willing yoke,
For goodness is a band no savage broke!
Not _Salem's_ walls defil'd with wilful blood,
A crime, her victor's clemency withstood:
Not all her honours levell'd with the dust,
Styl'd _Titus good_, or _merciful_, or _just_:
Love knit the charm on which his greatness rose,
A charm! not worlds united can oppose!
Behold the glorious pattern marks your rise!
Nor quit the steps by which he gain'd the skies:
Try to surpass! (but heav'n his _fate_ refuse!)
_He wept a day!_ ... which YOU _will never lose_!
_New Amer. Mag._, No. XI-283, Nov. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.
[Footnote 38: This alludes to the new order instituted by his
Prussian Majesty, the badge of which is a gold medal with
this inscription, For Merit.]
[Footnote 39: This alludes to the king's allowing liberty to
the tall soldiers his father forced into his service.]
TRANSLATION OF AN EPISTLE FROM THE
KING OF PRUSSIA TO MONSIEUR VOLTAIRE.
Voltaire, believe me, were I now
In private life's calm station plac'd,
Yet heav'n for nature's wants allow,
With cold indifference would I view
Departing fortune's winged haste,
And at the goddess laugh like you.
Th' insipid farce of tedious state,
Imperial duty's real weight,
The faithless courtier's supple bow,
The fickle multitude's caress,
And flatt'rers wordy emptiness,
By long experience well I know;
And, tho' a prince and poet born,
Vain blandishments of glory scorn.
For when the ruthless sheers of fate
Have cut my life's precarious thread,
And rank me with th' unconscious dead,
What will't avail that _I was_ great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of fame
In mem'ry's temple chants my name?
One blissful moment whilst we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do potentates receive
Of good peculiarly their own?
Sweet ease, and unaffected joy,
Domestic peace, and sportive pleasure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft silent scenes of lovely leisure
To what we monarchs buy so dear,
The thorny pomp of scepter'd care.
My pain or bliss shall ne'er depend
On fickle fortune's casual flight,
For, whether she's my foe or friend,
In calm repose I'll pass the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her smile, nor fear her frown.
But from our stations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,
And certain deeds each rank calls forth
By which is measur'd human worth.
_Voltaire_, within his private cell,
In realms where ancient honesty
Is patrimonial property,
And sacred freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all _his_ peaceful mind,
Guided by _Plato's_ deathless page,
In silent solitude resigned
To the mild virtues of a sage;
But I 'gainst whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Must be to face the tempest's rage,
In thought, in life, in death a king.
_New Amer. Mag._, No. XVII-470, May 1759, Woodbridge in N. J.
A DUTCH PROVERB.
Fire, water, woman, are man's ruin
Says wise Professor Vander Bruein
By flames a house I hir'd was lost
Last year; and I must pay the cost.
This spring the rains o'erflow'd my ground;
And my best Flanders mare was drown'd.
A slave I am to Clara's eyes:
The gipsy knows her power and flies.
Fire, water, woman, are my ruin:
And great thy wisdom Vander Bruein.
_Boston Mag._, III-81, Feb. 1786, Boston.
ODE TO DEATH
By Frederick II, King of Prussia.
From the French, by Dr. Hawkesworth.
Yet a few years or days perhaps,
Or moments pass with silent lapse,
And time to me shall be no more;
No more the sun these eyes shall view,
Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew,
And life's fantastick dream be o'er.
Alas! I touch the dreadful brink,
From nature's verge impell'd I sink,
And endless darkness wraps me round!
Yes, Death, is ever at my hand,
Fast by my bed he takes his stand,
And constant at my board is found.
Earth, air and fire, and water join
Against this fleeting life of mine,
And where for succour can I fly?
If art with flattering wiles pretend
To shield me like a guardian friend,
By Art, ere Nature bids, I die.
I see this tyrant of the mind,
This idol Flesh to dust consigned,
Once call'd from dust by power divine:
Its features change, 'tis pale, 'tis cold--
Hence dreadful spectre! to behold
Thy aspect, is to make it mine.
And can I then with guilty pride,
Which fear nor shame can quell or hide,
This flesh still pamper and adorn?
Thus viewing what I soon shall be,
Can what I am demand the knee,
Or look on aught around with scorn?
But then this spark that warms, that guides,
That lives, that thinks, what fate betides?
Can this be dust, a kneaded clod!
This yield to death! the soul, the mind,
That measures heaven, and mounts the wind,
That knows at once itself and God?
Great Cause of all, above, below,
Who knows thee must forever know,
Immortal and divine!
Thy image on my soul imprest,
Of endless being is the test,
And bids Eternity be mine.
Transporting thought!--but I am sure
That endless life will joy secure?
Joys only to the just decreed!
The guilty wretch expiring goes,
Where vengeance endless life bestows,
That endless mis'ry may succeed.
Great God, how awful is the scene!
A breath, a transient breath between;
And can I jest, and laugh and play?
To earth, alas! too firmly bound,
Trees, deeply rooted in the ground,
Are shiver'd when they're torn away.
Vain joys, which envy'd greatness gains,
How do ye bind with silken claims,
Which ask Herculean strength to break!
How with new terrours have ye arm'd
The power whose slightest glance alarm'd!
How many deaths of one ye make!
Yet, dumb with wonder, I behold
Man's thoughtless race in errour bold,
Forget or scorn, the laws of death;
With these no projects coincide,
Nor vows nor toils, nor hopes they guide,
Each thinks he draws immortal breath.
Each blind to fate's approaching hour,
Intrigues, or fights for wealth or power,
And slumb'ring dangers dare provoke:
And he who tott'ring scarce sustains
A century's age, plans future gains,
And feels an unexpected stroke.
Go on, unbridled desp'rate band,
Scorn rocks, gulfs, winds, search sea and land,
And spoil new worlds wherever found.
Seize, haste to seize the glittering prize,
And sighs, and tears and prayers despise,
Nor spare the temple's holy ground.
They go, succeed, but look again,
The desperate hand you seek in vain,
Now trod in dust the peasant's scorn.
But who, that saw their treasures swell,
That heard th' insatiate rebel,
Would e'er have thought them mortal born?
See the world's victor mount his car,
Blood marks his progress wide and far,
Sure he shall reign while ages fly;
No, vanish'd like a morning cloud,
The hero was but just allow'd
To fight, to conquer, and to die.
And is it true, I ask with dread,
That nations heap'd on nations bled
Beneath his chariot's fervid wheel,
With trophies to adorn the spot,
Where his pale corse was left to rot,
And doom'd the hungry reptile's meal?
Yes, fortune weary'd with her play,
Her toy, this hero, casts away,
And scarce the form of man is seen:
Awe chills my breast, my eyes o'erflow,
Around my brows no roses glow,
The cypress mine, funereal green.
Yet in this hour of grief and fears,
When awful Truth unveil'd appears,
Some power unknown usurps my breast;
Back to the world my thoughts are led,
My feet in folly's labyrinth tread,
And Fancy dreams that life is blest.
How weak an empress is the mind,
Whom Pleasure's flowery wreaths can bind,
And captive to her altars lead!
Weak Reason yields to Frenzy's rage,
And all the world is Folly's stage,
And all that act are fools indeed.
And yet this strange and sudden flight,
From gloomy cares to gay delight,
This fickleness so light and vain,
In life's delusive transient dream,
Where men nor things are what they seem,
Is all the real good we gain.
_New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, I-339, Dec. 7, 1786, New Haven.
NARCISSA
[A poem, the third stanza of which is as follows:]
Perhaps, like Werter[40], pensive in the shade,
I mourn in vain, and curse relentless fate
Or while I love the sympathetic maid,
Adversity's black clouds around me wait.
_Columbian Mag. or Mo. Misc._, I-245, Jan. 1787, Phila.
[Footnote 40: An unfortunate lover.]
CHARLOTTE'S SOLILOQUY--TO THE MANES OF WERTER.
By the late doctor Ladd.
Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so?
I wander through the gloom:
And with the tears of silent woe,
Each night bedew thy tomb.
Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so?
Thy friends, thy kindred flee?
Dost thou no longer Charlotte know?
Have friends no charms for thee?
Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so,
All lonely, full of fears?
Behold thy friends are left to woe,
And Charlotte left in tears.
Why, Werter, dost thou leave me so,
To wander round thy tomb?
Alas! presentiments of woe
Foretold thy fatal doom.
Why Werter didst thou leave me so,
In terrible despair?
Those pistols did thy fate foreknow:
Ah! why was Charlotte there!
Why, Werter, didst thou leave me so?
Alas! thou wrong'dst my love,
To leave me weeping here below,
While thou art blest above.
Werter, thou shalt not leave me so:
We must not parted be:
I quit the world--to heav'n I go!
Werter, I fly to thee.
_Amer. Museum_, I-180, Feb. 1787, Phila.
DEATH OF WERTER.
I
And say, did Charlotte's hand these pistols give?
Come, ye dear pledges, sacred to my love--
Since giv'n by her, 'twould be a crime to live--
No; come ye pistols; all your death I prove.
II
But first one kiss, for there did Charlotte touch,
Ye sacred relics, now are ye most dear;
Tho' o'er your deeds will Charlotte sorrow much,
And even Albert drop a pitying tear.
III
May heav'n forgive the unconsider'd deed!
It gave me passions, nor could I controul:
But if, poor Werter, 'tis a crime to bleed,
The God of heav'n have mercy on thy soul.
IV
Charlotte I go!--my pistols have their load:
My last, my dying thoughts are fix'd on you!
I go! I go thro' death's untrodden road;
Once, and for ever, Charlotte--Oh! adieu!
_Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.
WERTER'S EPITAPH.
I
Stranger! whoe'er thou art, that from below
This grass-green hill, with steady steps dost press;
Shed sympathetic tears; for stranger know,
Here lies the son of sorrow and distress.
II
Although his soul with ev'ry virtue mov'd,
Tho' at his birth deceitful fortune smil'd,
In one sad hour, too fatally he lov'd;
False fortune frown'd, and he was sorrow's child.
III
Heav'n gave him passions, as she virtue gave,
But gave not pow'r those passions to suppress:
By them subdu'd he slumbers in the grave--
The soul's last refuge from terrene distress.
IV
Around his tomb, the sweetest grass shall spring;
And annual flowers shall ever blossom here;
Here fairy forms their loveliest gifts shall bring,
And passing strangers shed the pitying tear.
_Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.
[Dr. Ladd, _Werter's Epitaph_.]
DESCENT OF ODIN. AN ODE.
_New Haven Gaz. and Conn. Mag._, III-No. 21, May 29, 1788, New Haven.
[Thomas Gray, _Poems_. Publ. by Dodsley--London, July 1768. Publ. by
Foulis--Glasgow, Sept. 1768.
Both editions contain the _Descent of Odin_. "The poem was written at
Cambridge in 1761. It is a paraphrase of the ancient Icelandic lay
called _Vegtams Kvida_, and sometimes _Baldrs draumar_. The original
is to be found in Bartholinus, _de causis contemnendae mortis_; Hafniae,
1689, quarto. Gray has omitted to translate the first four lines." Cf.
_Works of Thomas Gray_, ed. by Edmund Gosse. N. Y., 1885. I-60.]
CHARACTERISTIC SKETCH OF THE LONG ISLAND DUTCH.
Still on those plains their num'rous race survive,
And, born to labour, still are found to thrive;
Through rain and sunshine, toiling for their heirs,
They hold no nation on this earth like theirs.
Where'er they fix, all nature smiles around--
Groves bend with fruit, and plenty clothes the ground;
No barren trees to shade their domes, are seen;
Trees must be fertile, and their dwellings clean;
No idle fancy dares its whims apply,
Or hope attention from the master's eye.
All tends to something that must pelf produce,
All for some end, and ev'ry thing its use.
Eternal scow'rings keep their floors afloat,
Neat as the outside of the Sunday coat.
The wheel, the loom, the female band employ,--
These all their pleasure, these their darling joy.
The strong-ribb'd lass no idle passions move,
No nice ideas of romantic love;
He to her heart the readiest path can find,
Who comes with gold, and courts her to be kind.
She heeds not valour, learning, wit, or birth,
Minds not the swain--but asks him, what he's worth?
No female fears in her firm breast prevail,
The helm she governs, and she trims the sail;
In some small barque the way to market finds,
Hauls aft the sheet, or veers it to the winds:
While, lac'd ahead, subservient to her will,
Hans smokes his pipe, and wonders at her skill.
Health to their toils--thus may they still go on--
Curse on my pen! what virtues have I drawn!
Is this the gen'ral taste? No--truth replies--
If fond of beauty, guiltless of disguise,
See (where the social circle meant to grace)
The handsome Yorker shades her lovely face;
She, early led to happier talks at home,
Prefers the labours that her sex become;
Remote from view, directs some fav'rite art,
And leaves to hardier man the ruder part.
_Amer. Museum_, VII, Jan.-June 1790, Appendix I-42, Phila.
ON READING THE SORROWS OF WERTER.
Mistaken youth! thy love, to frenzy wrought,
Spurn'd calm reflection and each sober thought.
A little time had shewn e'en Charlotte's charms
Had shrunk and faded in a Werter's arms:
For guilt and meanness ne'er could dwell with thee;
And virtuous friendship soon had set thee free.
But hadst thou triumph'd o'er the fair one's fall,
Thou then, as now, hadst met the fatal ball;
Still keener anguish had attack'd thy mind
Than e'en now dying thy stung soul did find.
None dare say Mercy wont extend its aid; }
But who of that would not have been afraid, }
If with a kiss thou Charlotte hadst betray'd. }
--Laura.
_Universal Asylum and Columbian Mag._, V-269, Oct. 1790, Phila.
WERTER'S EPITAPH
By the late Dr. Ladd.
_Mass. Mag._, III-114, Feb. 1791, Boston.
[Also in _Amer. Museum_, I-474, May 1787, Phila.]
ELLA. A TALE.
History says that Sivard, King of Sweden, entered Norway with a
numerous army, and committed the greatest enormities; but was at last
overthrown, his army routed, and himself slain by one of those women
whom he had brutally abused.
Between Norwegian hills wide spreads a plain,
By nature form'd for sport;
The Vet'ran warrior here, and hardy swain,
To annual games resort.
High o'er their heads was hung the hoary brow,
Which cast an ample shade;
From thence these words majestic seem'd to flow--
"Fierce foes your sports invade!"