And now (what time the westering orb of day,
    Shot thro’ the purpled clouds a mellower ray)
    The soldiers, with their charge, the tower had gain’d,
    Where, wrapt in fetters, Harfagar remain’d—­
    From whose tall top the eye unbounded threw
    O’er all the subject town its ample view,
    O’er crowded streets, and marts, and sacred spires,
    That glitter’d with the day’s declining fires. 
    There, round his limbs a length of chain they threw,
    Strict charge enjoin’d, and to their posts withdrew. 
    The tranquil captive press’d the rugged ground,
    Smiled on his chains, and gazed the prison round;
    “And here,” he cried, “the fates, relenting, give
    Fair Freedom back; again to her I live! 
    I am once more a patriot—­fix once more
    My foot on rectitude’s deserted shore! 
    O Sweden! tho’ by me to death betray’d,
    Accept these tears, thou dear maternal shade! 
    Thy image shall my lonely dungeon cheer,
    And in dark slumbers to my soul appear: 
    While hopes of thee shall every terror brave,
    And gild the gloomy confines of the grave. 
    Tho’ snatch’d by cleaving earth to central gloom,
    Or buried in the Ocean’s watery tomb,
    Yet should my soul in exile pant for thee,
    And lightly prize all meaner misery!”
    Down his warm cheeks the tears unbidden roll,
    And speak the silent language of his soul.

      Meanwhile the council closed; the peers withdrew: 
    To Trollio’s dome the prince impatient flew;
    There saw at large the hostile plot disclosed,
    And his own plans with silent care disposed: 
    While Bernheim bade his quarter’d troops prepare
    At earliest dawn the toils of war to share. 
    The weak he strengthen’d, and confirm’d the brave,
    Arranged each band, and due directions gave.

      Then to their stations baste the joyful powers,
    And cheat with various sport the midnight hours. 
    Some brighten up their arms to polish’d flame,
    And shake the sword, as in the field of fame: 
    Some crown the bowl, to chase dull fears away,
    And end in long debauch the task of day. 
    Some court the aid of sleep, whose soft relief
    Weighs down the eye of care, and smooths the thorns of Grief. 
    Enfolded in his golden wings they lie,
    And fancied triumphs swell in every eye: 
    Each bounds in thought the airy champaign o’er,
    And grasps the prize, distain’d with streaming gore.

      Now move the summoned peers, a shining train,
    To where the palace glitters o’er the plain. 
    The opening gate receives the pompous throng;
    Thence to the festive room they move along,
    Where tapers, rang’d in lofty rows, display
    An added splendour, and nocturnal day. 
    There, till the close of night, the bowls go round,
    And the full board with luxury is crown’d.