ARISE! Old Norway sends the word Of battle on the blast; Her voice the forest pines hath stirred, 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 the invader's head! Or let the seas, that guard our isles Give burial to his dead! |