Into the Daugava's surging flood
Now sank the setting sun's pale glow.
A thick mist rose and dripped like blood;
The waves sighed mournful down below.
The foaming waters parted wide,
And took the hero to their breast.
An island rose up in the tide,
And in this place he sank to rest.
Within the castle fearful screams
And cries of lamentation rose,
And now Laimdota-dead her dreams-
To end her life that moment chose.
The Latvian warriors, stricken sore,
His kin and brethren, all in sum,
Now, one by one, fell in the war,
By stronger forces overcome.
The Strangers gained the upper hand,
And ruled as lords, cruel and depraved:
The well-loved people of the land,
For centuries were all enslaved.
But still, though ages long pass by,
The grieving folk his memory keeps.-
For them, in death he does not lie,
But in a golden palace sleeps.
Below the island risen there,
He lies within the Daugava's breast,
With Latvia's folk their fate to share,
And close to Lielvarde rest.
From time to time, late in the night,
The Daugava boatmen sometimes see
Two men in combat on the height,
In struggles that they cannot flee.
While in the castle ruins, clear,
A little flame there flickers bright.
The fighting men the edge come near,
But take no heed, so hot their fight.
Until at last they cross the bounds,
And deep into the depths they drop.-
A scream within the castle sounds,
The little flame's bright flickers stop.