Who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed chiefs on sea or shore,
White steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch’d, thy long mane curls,
Fair steed, as white and free;