Craveth naught from lesser powers;
'Tis the shrub that loveth the fertile ground,
But the sturdy rock is ours!
We tower aloft where the hunters lag
By the weary mountain side,
By the jaggy cliff, by the grimy crag,
And the chasms yawning wide.
When the great clouds march in a mountain heap,
By the light of the dwindled sun,
We steady our heads 'gainst their misty sweep,