OLD NORWAY.
277
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 the invader's head!
Or let the seas, that guard our Isles,
Give burial to his dead!
