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O tall hill, whose gray head
Is weeping in heaven,
We come not to pierce thro'
Thy dim holy chambers—
We see thee and love thee,
And never will mar thee:—
O beautiful valley,
Bright lake, and tall mountain,
The Ritters ride forth!
Churls scratch, with the base share,
The flower-girdled valley;
And sheer, with the sharp keel,
The dream-loving billow;
They pierce to the heart of
The grand giant mountain,
And fling on the fierce flame
His pale yellow life-strings.
We come to avenge thee,
To slay the destroyer.
O, beautiful valley,
Bright lake, and tall mountain,
The Ritters ride forth!
