Classic Poem

See'st thou yon mountain, so immensely high,
Around whose sky-crown'd head raw tempests fly!
How, low'ring darkly, o'er the shadow'd plain,
It hangs, the genuine seat of horror's reign!
Its craggy sides hold, thin, a sterile soil,
Which, promising no harvest, tempts no toil!
No grazing cattle crop subsistence, there,
Nor flow'r-fed breezes feast the hungry air!
No soft meand'ring current glides along,
To court the meadows, with its murm'ring song,
No lofty spires a wand'ring glance invite,
Nor wind-shook woods arrest the ravish'd sight!
All rough, and wild, it rears its rocky head,
Severely aweful, and un-lovely spread:
From its cold top, soil-sweeping torrents flow,
Form'd, by unfruitful floods of native snow!
Sorrow sits, brooding, on its furrow'd face,
And desolation covers all the place.
See'st thou all this, fond youth! so charm'd, with state?
Such is the envy'd bliss, that gilds the great!
Such are the barren honours they enjoy!
For such distinction, they their cares employ!
They move our pity , while they tempt our sight ;
High above all, indeed, but fruitless , in their height.