Where the thronging crowds are found.
Who fly at the sound of my iron feet,
Like the hare at the baying hound.
I traverse the regions of burning heat,
The Equator hears my scream;
And I breathe the silence of winter’s retreat,
Where the glittering snow-fields gleam.
The wild beasts fly when my voice they hear
Through the sounding forest ring,
And the sons of men stand mute with fear,