No bird can reach the mountain’s crest.

There blow the winds that never rest;

And ‘midst the stars that crown the height,

Saint Gregory’s fair lamp shines bright.1

Ah, gentle brother, sweet and brave,

That Light thy sword and spirit save!

How many rills the mountain yields!

Those rills are streams, that dew the fields.

My brother sweet, those rushing streams

Are like my longings and my dreams.

Happy the maid that loveth thee!

When shall thy heart’s desire be?

See, in the South a tempest breaks—

tempest howls, the leaflet quakes;

The bluebell hangs its petals bright,

The cock cries out with all his might.

Like showers of gold comes down the rain:—

Why comes my love not home again?

The Star of Light begins his course,

The brave one mounts upon his horse.

He drives his spurs into its flanks,

And rides away to join the ranks.

Happy the maid that loveth thee,

When shall thy heart’s desire be?

There comes no news from far away,

Our brave ones rest not from the fray.

’Tis long that sleep my eyes doth flee—

Our foemen press unceasingly.

’Tis long for sleep I vainly pray:

There comes no news from far away.