Gigantic sire, unfallen still thy crest!
Primeval dweller where the wild winds rest,
Beyond the ken of mortal e'er to tell
What power sustains thee in thy rock-bound cell.
Or if, when first creation vast began,
And far the universal fiat ran,
"Let there be light"—from chaos dark set free,
Ye rose, a monument of Deity,
Proud from yon cloud-crowned height to look henceforth
On insignificance that peoples earth,
Recalling oft the bitter draft which turns
The mind to meditate on what it learns.
Stern, passionless, no soul those looks betray;
Though kindred rocks, to sport at mortal clay—
Much as the chisel of the sculptor's art
"Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart."
Ah, who can fathom thee! Ambitious man,
Like a trained falcon in the Gallic van,
Guided and led, can never reach to thee
With all the strength of weakness—vanity!
Great as thou art, and paralleled by none,
Admired by all, still art thou drear and lone!
The moon looks down upon thine exiled height;
The stars, so cold, so glitteringly bright,
On wings of morning gladly flit away,
Yield to the sun's more genial, mighty ray;
The white waves kiss the murmuring rill—
But thy deep silence is unbroken still.