In vain, O mountain, this malignant mist
Hides thy grand brow, and every wrinkle fills;
In vain these envious levelling clouds insist
Thou art no higher than the little hills;
In vain conspiring foes their powers enlist:
For that, in spite of all, thy changeless form
Triumphant stands, sublime from age to age,
Heedless of all the furies of the storm,
And how against thy strength they break their rage:
With what stern patience thou canst calmly wait,
Answering with silent scorn their clamorous hate,
Till the true Wind of popular fame blows forth,
And its just Sun shines out to vindicate
The cloudless majesty of slandered worth.