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There is an air of majesty,

A bearing dignified and free,

About the mountain peaks;

Each crag of weather-beaten stone

Presents a grandeur of its own

To him who seeks.

There is a proud, defiant mein,

Expressive, stern, and yet serene,

About the precipice;

Whose rugged form looks grimly down,

And answers, with an austere frown

The sunlight's kiss.

The mountain, with the snow bank crowned;

The gorge, abysmal and profound;

Impress with aspect grand:

With unfeigned reverence I see

In canon and declivity

The All-Wise Hand.