Majestic from its mountain-source,
Afar in dim and mystic glades—
Which nought save pilgrim’s foot invades,
’Midst ice-bound glens, where, cold and lone,
Himaleh rears his snowy throne,
High over realms chaotic hurled,
The monarch of the mountain-world;
Whilst, far away, a sheeted throng
Of spectral peaks his state prolong;
Cold, death-like, mutes on high they stand,