Voice of the Second Spirit

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crown’d him long ago
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
      With a diadem of snow.
Around his waist are forests braced,
      The Avalanche in his hand;
But ere it fall, that thundering ball
      Must pause for my command.
The Glacier’s cold and restless mass
      Moves onward day by day;
But I am he who bids it pass,
      Or with its ice delay;
I am the spirit of the place,
      Could make the mountain bow
And quiver to his cavern’d base –
And what with me wouldst Thou?