Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 32 1832.pdf/6



! old Norway sends the word Of battle on the blast! Her voice the forest pines hath stirr'd,    As if a storm went past; Her thousand hills the call have heard, And forth their fire-flags cast.

Arm, arm! free hunters, for the chase, The kingly chase of foes! 'Tis not the bear, or wild wolf's race, Whose trampling shakes the snows! Arm, arm! 'tis on a nobler trace The Northern spearman goes.

Our hills have dark and strong defiles, With many an icy bed; Heap there the rocks for funeral piles Above th' invader's head! Or let the seas that guard our isles, Give burial to his dead!