A maiden was lamenting in a dark tower,
built on the edge of a lake.
The waves and storm roared and howled
along with the sound of her mourning.

Rosalia of Montanvert
was named by many troubadors
and an entire host of knights
the crown of nature.

But before her heart could feel the power
of sweet love,
her father died in battle
on a Saracen shore.

Her uncle, a knight named Manfry, was
made her guardian;
it gladdened his heart, as hard as rock,
to think of the maiden's goods and gold.

Soon everywhere in the land went
the sad news:
"The cold night of death has surrounded
the rose of Montanvert."

A black squad of death seethes
high above the maiden's castle:
the dull churchbells announce her death
for three days and nights.

Forever gone, forever dead,
O rose of Montanvert!
Now you will no longer mitigate the sufferings of widows
and the pain of orphans!

So old and young unanimously mourn,
their expressions heavy with tears,
from dawn to dusk,
the rose of Montanvert.

Her uncle hid her in a tower,
filled with moldy air!
Then they lowered the empty coffin
into her father's crypt.

Silent and anxious, the maiden heard
the litany of the priests,
dimly through the dungeon's bars penetrated
the red gleam of torches.

She sensed with horror her fate;
she grew numb and sad,
and her eyes grew dim in the night of death;
she sank and was no more.

The tower's ruins by the lake
are still to be seen today;
When he nears them, the wanderer is gripped 
by an eerie terror.

Also, many a shepherd will declare
that at night he often sees
a silver cloud high up,
and the maiden drifting there.