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.