My strength fails fast, and my breath is scant,
So I'll e'en rest here and rhyme.
“Yea, my slopes are steep and my dells are deep,
And my broad bald brow is high,
And you'll ne'er, should you rhyme till the limit of time,
Find worthier theme than I!
“My summit I shroud in the weltering cloud,
And I laugh at the tempest’s din;
I am girdled about with stout rock without,
And I've countless wealth within.