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.