As the white steed of Dagmar shone, breasting the hill; To the mound where old Sölvar lies lonely and still, In the red light of evening, arresting her gaze, Flocked the meek mountain ewes and the steers up the ways, With the firstlings and yearlings, from hill top and hollow, Gathering far, the sweet voice of the Phantom to follow-- To them sweeter than murmur of fountain and rill. There was joy in their looks, in their eyes the clear light Glistened searchingly forth on that mystical sight. And from far, too, the white steed of Dagmar the Dane Pricked his ears, stepping proudly, unheeding the rein; And aside to the summit turned joyfully pacing; While the steers and the ewes listened wistfully gazing, And the Phantom sat singing of Sölvar the Bright. O'er the pools of the Brathay, from Skelwith's lone tower The sire of the princess looked forth in that hour. He beheld the white steed of his child, like a star On the green-breasted hill, and he cried from afar-- "She has heard his wild strains on the hill-top awaken, And I from this hour am alone and forsaken. --Not her voice nor her foot-fall, to come to me more!" For to Dagmar the fair, when the flocks of the field And the herds were in motion their homage to yield To the bright Norseland Boy--with the fire and the grace Of his sires in his limbs and their pride in his face-- In the garb of his country, rehearsing the story Of chiefs and of kings and the Norseland's old glory-- Was the Phantom in all his bright beauty revealed. There entranced in that vision, enchained by his tongue, As the strains through his harp-strings melodiously rung, Sat the maid on White Svend mid the yearlings; till now Far departing he turns from the hill's sunny brow; And the ewes at his feet awhile falteringly follow, Then range back bewildered to hill-top and hollow; While the Maid on his fast-fading accents still hung. Through the still light receding his loose tresses streamed; But to fly with him still was the dream she had dreamed; Side by side o'er the hills, through the valleys, and on To the Norseland to hear his wild songs all alone; And to chase from his lips every accent of sorrow, As they walked through the dawn of a brighter to-morrow Into sunlight that heaven upon earth never beamed. Springing down from White Svend, swiftly Dagmar the Dane Cast aside on his neck the rich silk-tassel'd rein; With her eyes fixed afar o'er the green mountain sward, Whence the bright Norseland Boy cast a backward regard. Call aloud from thy Tower, call aloud and implore her, Hapless sire! to return, ere the night gathers o'er her! She can hear but the voice of the Phantom's sweet strain.