voice of
song! Salgar promised to come! but the night descended around. Hear the
voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!

"Colma. It is night: I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind
is heard on the mountain. The torrent is howling down the rock. No hut
receives me from the rain: forlorn on the hill of winds!

"Rise moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me,
some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! His
bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him! But here I must
sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar
aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar; why the
chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock and here the tree! here
is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah!
whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father, with
thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not
foes, O Salgar!

"Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my
voice be heard around! let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who
calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why
delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is
bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not
on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near
approach. Here I must sit alone!

"Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak
to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am
alone! My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead! Their swords
are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my
Salgar! Why, O Salgar, hast thou slain my brother! Dear were ye both to
me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill among
thousands! he was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my voice! hear
me, sons of my love! They are silent! silent for ever! Cold, cold, are
their breasts of clay! Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top of
the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! Speak, I will not be
afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall
I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half
drowned in the storm!

"I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye
friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away
like a dream. Why