God of the distant north, the Snowy Range
    O’er other mountains towers imperially;
  Earth’s measuring-rod, being great and free from change,
    Sinks to the eastern and the western sea.

  Whose countless wealth of natural gems is not
    Too deeply blemished by the cruel snow;
  One fault for many virtues is forgot,
    The moon’s one stain for beams that endless flow.

  Where demigods enjoy the shade of clouds
    Girding his lower crests, but often seek,
  When startled by the sudden rain that shrouds
    His waist, some loftier, ever sunlit peak.

  Where bark of birch-trees makes, when torn in strips
    And streaked with mountain minerals that blend
  To written words ’neath dainty finger-tips,
    Such dear love-letters as the fairies send.

  Whose organ-pipes are stems of bamboo, which
    Are filled from cavern-winds that know no rest,
  As if the mountain strove to set the pitch
    For songs that angels sing upon his crest.

  Where magic herbs that glitter in the night
    Are lamps that need no oil within them, when
  They fill cave-dwellings with their shimmering light
    And shine upon the loves of mountain men.

  Who offers roof and refuge in his caves
    To timid darkness shrinking from the day;
  A lofty soul is generous; he saves
    Such honest cowards as for protection pray,

  Who brings to birth the plants of sacrifice;
    Who steadies earth, so strong is he and broad. 
  The great Creator, for this service’ price,
    Made him the king of mountains, and a god.

Himalaya marries a wife, to whom in course of time a daughter is born, as wealth is born when ambition pairs with character.  The child is named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain.  Her father takes infinite delight in her, as well he may; for

  She brought him purity and beauty too,
    As white flames to the lamp that burns at night;
  Or Ganges to the path whereby the true
    Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.

She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.

  As pictures waken to the painter’s brush,
    Or lilies open to the morning sun,
  Her perfect beauty answered to the flush
    Of womanhood when childish days were done.

  Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray;
    Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid: 
  Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay,
    That round her red, red lips for ever played.

  And when she spoke, the music of her tale
    Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit,
  Till listeners felt as if the nightingale
    Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.

It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the wife of the god Shiva.  This prediction awakens her father’s pride, and also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances.  For the destined bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and self-denial upon a mountain peak.  Himalaya therefore bids his daughter wait upon Shiva.  She does so, but without being able to divert him from his austerities.