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When winter winds are piercing chill, |
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and through the hawthorn blows the gale, |
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with solemn feet i tread the peak, |
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that overbrows the mountains vale. |
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Redhorn; my doom! |
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Where twisted round the barren oak, |
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the winter vine in beauty clung, |
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and howling winds the stillness broke, |
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the crystal icicle is hung. |
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Redhorn; my doom! |
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But still wild music is abroad, |
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pale, desert woods! within your crowd; |
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and gathering winds, in hoarse accord, |
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amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. |
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High upon the land, |
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on the highest (mountain) peak i hear |
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(the echoes of) the world profound. |
