poems.
143
The wind upon the mountain roars,
The torrent from the rocky steep,
And here forlorn my spirit pours
Its grief 'mid floods that fill the deep.
Rise, moon, nor hide behind the cloud;
Star of the solemn night, arise;
Let gloom no more my pathway shroud;
Lead me to where my lov'd one lies.
There rests he from the chase alone,
His bow unstrung, his hunters near,
While still beside the mossy stone
Of this lone stream, I linger here.
The stream, the wind, loud roar around;
That voice so lov'd I may not hear:
My spirit yearns to hear that sound;
My heart is torn with grief and fear.
My Salgar, chief of this proud hill,
Here is the rock, and here the tree;
Why dost thou not thy word fulfil?
Thou here didst promise, thou to me;
Here is the roving streamlet too.
Thou saidst with night thou wouldst be here,
And I this night will fly with jam,
Far from my father, brother, dear.
Our race with thine was long a foe;
Such strife our hearts can never know.
The torrent from the rocky steep,
And here forlorn my spirit pours
Its grief 'mid floods that fill the deep.
Rise, moon, nor hide behind the cloud;
Star of the solemn night, arise;
Let gloom no more my pathway shroud;
Lead me to where my lov'd one lies.
There rests he from the chase alone,
His bow unstrung, his hunters near,
While still beside the mossy stone
Of this lone stream, I linger here.
The stream, the wind, loud roar around;
That voice so lov'd I may not hear:
My spirit yearns to hear that sound;
My heart is torn with grief and fear.
My Salgar, chief of this proud hill,
Here is the rock, and here the tree;
Why dost thou not thy word fulfil?
Thou here didst promise, thou to me;
Here is the roving streamlet too.
Thou saidst with night thou wouldst be here,
And I this night will fly with jam,
Far from my father, brother, dear.
Our race with thine was long a foe;
Such strife our hearts can never know.
