Says the Swede now: That our cherished Norseland's banner red, That which flew when Magnus perished, As to-day outspread, Which o'er Fredrikshald victorious And o'er Adler waved all glorious, That the Swedish yellow-blue Must in shame henceforth eschew. Says the Swede now: Lost their luster Have our memories, Brighter honors shall we muster, If we borrow his. Bids us forth to Lützen stumble, Close this straw-thatched cottage humble, Drag our grandsire's ancient seat To the Swedes for honor meet. Let it stand, that poor old lumber, To us dear for aye; Sweden's ground it could but cumber, And it might not pay. For, we know from history's pages, Some sat there in former ages, Sverre Priest and other men, Who may wish to come again. Says the Swede now: We must know it, _He_ our freedom gave, But the Swedish sword can mow it, Send it to its grave. Yet the case is not alarming, He must fare with good fore-arming, For in truth some fell of yore, There where he would break a door. Says the Swede now: We a clever Little boy remain, Very suitable to ever Hold his mantle's train. But would Christie be so pliant, With his comrades self-reliant, If they still at Eidsvold stood, Sword-girt, building Norway's good? Big words oft the Swede was saying, Only small were we, But they never much were weighing, When the test should be. On the little cutter sailing, Wessel and Norse youth prevailing, Sweden's flag and frigate chased From the Kattegat in haste. Sweden's noblemen are shaking Charles the Twelfth's proud hat; We, in council or war-making, Peers are for all that. If things take the worse turn in there, Aid from Torgny we shall win there. Then o'er all the Northland's skies Greater freedom's sun shall rise. JOHAN LUDVIG HEIBERG (1860) (See Note 7) To the grave they bore him sleeping, Him the aged, genial gardener; Now the children gifts are heaping From the flower-bed he made. There the tree that he sat under, And the garden gate is open, While we cast a glance and wonder Whether some one sits there still. He is gone. A woman only Wanders there with languid footsteps, Clothed in black and now so lonely, Where his laughter erst rang clear. As a child when past it going, Through the fence she looked with longing, Now great tears so freely flowing Are her thanks that she came in. Fairy-tales and thoughts high-soaring Whispered to him 'neath the foliage. She flits softly, gathering, storing Them as solace for her woe. *** Far his wanderings once bore him, Bore this aged, genial searcher; One who listening sat before him Much could learn from time to time. Life and letters were his ladder Up toward that which few discover, Thought's wide realm, with vision gladder He explored, each summit scaled. In his manhood he defended All that greatness has and beauty; Later he the stars attended In their silent course to God. ***