THE ORE MOUNTAINS
Their peaks in proud and gloomy wise
'Mid solemn stillness to the skies
The Cheskian hills in distant haze
Northward raise.
Hark! from their depths what sounds arise.
No shepherds loom upon the sight
By sheep-folds, and no sound takes flight
Of angels' harps, and angels' singing:
'Mid the bells ringing
Seethes Cheskian blood that loves the right.
But thou hear'st, the stillness rending,
The gloomy thunder-pea! ascending.
The smiths are speeding, and they fashion
The mighty passion
Of slayers proud, the breach defending.
Thou hear'st the sound of metals roaring,
Sparks are singing, sparks are soaring;
Renown he whets in skilful toil
With keen-edged foil,
Who for the golden fleece is warring.
In youthful strength from depths of hills
He rises 'mid our strife and ills;
'Neath clouds o'er earth the flashes dart,
Within each heart,
Melts, at his gaze, the crust that chills.
