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作词 : Walter Scott |
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作曲 : Ludwig van Beethoven |
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The sun upon the Weirdlaw hill, |
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in Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; |
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the westland wind is hush and still, |
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the lake lies sleeping at my feet. |
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Yet not the landscape to mine eyes |
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bears those bright hues that once it bore; |
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tho' Ev'ning, with her richest dye, |
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flames o'er the hills on Ettrick's shore. |
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With listless look along the plain, |
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I see Tweed's silver current glide, |
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And coldly mark the holy fane |
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Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. |
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The quiet lake, the balmy air, |
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The hill , the stream, the tower, the tree, |
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Are they still such as once they were, |
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Or is the dreary change in me? |
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Alas, the warp'd and broken board, |
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How can it bear the painter's dye? |
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The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, |
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How to the minstrel's skill reply? |
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To aching eyes each landscape lowers, |
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To feverish pulse each gale blows chill: |
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And Araby's or Eden's bowers, |
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Were barren as this moorland hill. |
