At the gates of the mountain citadel!

Hark! a clear voice through the rude sounds ringing!

Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet singing?

“There may not long be fetters,

Where the cloud is earth’s array,

And the bright floods leap from cave and steep,

Like a hunter on the prey!

“There may not long be fetters,

Where the white Alps have their towers;

Unto Eagle-homes, if the arrow comes,