I love the sound of the Horn, in the evening, deep in the woods,
Whether he sings the cries of the doe at bay,
Or the farewell of the hunter that the faint echo welcomes
And that the north wind carries from leaf to leaf.
How many times, alone in the shadows at midnight remaining,
I smiled to hear it, and more often cried!
Because I thought I heard these prophetic sounds
Which preceded the death of the ancient Paladins.
O azure mountains! O beloved country!
Rocs de la Frazona, cirque of Marboré,
Waterfalls that fall from the driven snow,
Sources, rivers, streams, torrents of the Pyrenees;
Frozen and flowery mountains, throne of the two seasons,
Whose forehead is ice and foot grass!
This is where you have to sit, this is where you have to hear
The distant tunes of a melancholy and tender Horn.
Often a traveler, when the air is noiseless,
This brazen voice makes the night resound;
In his cadenced songs around him mingles
The harmonious bell of the young lamb bleating.
An attentive doe, instead of hiding,
Hangs motionless on the top of the rock,
And the waterfall unites, in an immense fall,
Her eternal complaint to the song of romance.
Souls of the Knights, are you coming back again?
Is it you who speaks with the voice of the Horn?
Roncesvalles! Roncesvalles! in your dark valley
The shadow of the great Roland is therefore not consoled!