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| GRIM mountain Sprite! that, robed in woods, | |
| Dost sit among these hills, their rightful king, | |
| Forgive the wight who rashly dares | |
| To vex thy silence with his questioning. | |
| |
| Adown thy steep and rugged flanks | 5 |
| The black fir glooms and the pale aspens quiver, | |
| And o’er thy glistening, wind-swept cliffs | |
| The mossy, perfumed streamlets leap forever. | |
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| We call to thee: our feeble cry | |
| Dies ’gainst the rocky faces of thy throne; | 10 |
| And from thy shaggy bosom comes | |
| Thine answer, deep-voicéd as an organ-tone. | |
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| In that broad breast no human heart | |
| To human pulses answereth again: | |
| The wandering wretch, in wood-paths lost, | 15 |
| To thy stern face for pity looks in vain. | |
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| Within that sphinx-like face we fain | |
| Would read the riddle of life’s fleeting story,— | |
| Thy calm eternal would we grasp, | |
| And gild our gloom with thy far-shining glory. | 20 |
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| But thou! thou gazest on the sea, | |
| With fir-crowned, stony brow that changes never: | |
| We leave thee, in dumb mystery, | |
| Dread sprite! to heave that hoary bulk forever. | |
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