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Foice of the SzcoNp SIRIT.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, Winh a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced, The Avalanche in his hand;

But ere it fall, chat thundering ball Must pause for my command.

The Glacier's cold and restless mass Moves onward day by day;

But I am he who bids it pass, Or with its ice delay.

I am the spirit of the place, Could make the mountain bow

And quiver to his cavern’d base—

And what with me wouldst Thou?

Foice of the THIRD SPIRIT.

In the blue depth of the waters,