ONCE on the top of Tynwald's formal mound (Still marked with green turf circles narrowing Stage above stage) would sit this Island's King, The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned: While, compassing the little mount around, Degrees and Orders stood, each under each: Now, like to things within fate's easiest reach The power is merged, the pomp a grave has found. Off with yon cloud, old Snafell! that thine eye Over three Realms may take its widest range; And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, If the whole State must suffer mortal change Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BALLAD OF THE GIBBET by FRANCOIS VILLON DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI: 2. HEAT by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER MAIDENHOOD by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SHAMEFUL DEATH by WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) SEVERUS TO TIBERIUS GREATLY ENNUYE by JOSEPH AUSLANDER A NYMPH TO A YOUNG SHEPHERD, INSENSIBLE OF LOVE by PHILIP AYRES |