What cheer, Imperial Mountain? Titan, hail!
Thy distant crest gleams in the morning-light,
Like a small shallop's broad and snowy sail,
Over still waters urging its swift flight.
What cheer, old thunder-scarred and wrinkled peak!
On which the elements in vain their fury wreak?

On thy wide shoulders rests the eternal snow,
Wherein broad rivers have their hidden springs;
Down thy rough sides impetuous torrents flow,
The cataract with sullen thunder rings,
And flashing fiercely round thine aged feet,
Against thy patient rocks the fretted waters beat.

Through the dark foam and fluctuating surge,
That ever dash thy rugged breast upon,
Thou dost in silent majesty emerge,
Lifting thy forehead proudly to the sun:
Like a great truth, simple, and yet sublime,
Gleaming above the surge of Error and of Time.

Thou standest there for ever, day and night,
Like a great man, calm, self-possessed, serene;
Who, doing what he knoweth to be right,
Stands up, firm-rooted, earnest, and sincere,
Calmly the suffrage of the world contemns,
Seeks not its worthless praise, nor heeds if it condemns.

Above the Northern Cordilleras towers
Thy haughty crest, like some strong feudal King,
Elect of Principalities and Powers,
To whom far isles unwilling tribute bring;
Who holds with pomp and majesty his court,
Among the mail-clad Barons that his throne support.

Thou standest firm there, like an iron will,
Triumphant over time and circumstance,
Sternly resolved its duty to fulfill,
And ever towards its object to advance;
While careless of the clamorous hounds that bay,
Through all impediments it marches on its way.

How many ages is it, since the snows
First on thy forehead and wide shoulders fell?
How many since the wandering sun arose,
Wondering at thee, grim-visaged sentinel!
On the wide desert's western margin set,
To watch its solemn loneliness, as thou dost yet?

Wast thou an island in the overflow
Of the great flood? Did any from afar
Look wistfully to thy eternal snow,
Over new oceans gleaming like a star?
Or did the waves thee also overwhelm,
Last spot of earth in the wide waters' angry realm.

Howe'er it be, still thou art planted there,
As when the Deluge round thee ceased to roar;
Thy snows the bright hues of the morning wear:
The crimson glories of spring-sunrise pour
On thy white brow that proudly fronts the sky,
Bidding a calm defiance to Day's burning eye.

Fierce storms for centuries against thee dash,
On thy bare head rain torrents of sharp hail,
The baffled lightnings round thy temples flash,
Over thee roar the thunder and the gale.
What matter to the calm and well-poised soul,
Though round it slander howl, and persecution roll.

The tempests vanish. The round moon shines bright;
In Heaven's glad ear the cataract's grave hymn
Sounds, through the solemn silence of the night:
Around thy brow the white stars thickly swim,
Anxious thine aged solitude to cheer,
Even as a wife's fond eyes shine, earnest and sincere.

So all the storms and clouds that gather round
A great man's reputation, pass away,
And leave it with a brighter glory crowned;
Above the elemental surge and spray,
To shine on distant ages, far across
The stormy sea of Time, on whose wild waves they toss.