Текст песни
When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the peak,
That overbrows the mountains vale.
Redhorn; my doom!
Where twisted round the barren oak,
The winter vine in beauty clung,
And howling winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Redhorn; my doom!
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! Within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
High upon the land,
On the highest (mountain) peak I hear
(the echoes of) the world profound.
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the peak,
That overbrows the mountains vale.
Redhorn; my doom!
Where twisted round the barren oak,
The winter vine in beauty clung,
And howling winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
Redhorn; my doom!
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! Within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
High upon the land,
On the highest (mountain) peak I hear
(the echoes of) the world profound.
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