Thy dwelling ’mongst the sons of toil.
Thy arms entwin’d around the rock,
And shrouded by a fleece of snow,
The tyrant-tempest thou canst mock,
That rudely strives to lay thee low.
Ye towering cliffs, your form upright,
The awful frown ye downward send,
Seem to portray that faithful knight,
Who to his foes would never bend.
I love thy gloom, thou cavern drear;