Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
It is a hard although a common case To find our children running restive- they In whom our brightest days we would retrace, Our little selves reform'd in finer clay, Just as old age is creeping on apace, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, Th
He who ascends to mountain tops, shall find, The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind, Must look down on the hate of those below