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...THE WANTS OF MAN by JOHN QUINCY ADAMS MOTHER NATURE by EMILY DICKINSON A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 47. THE CARPENTER'S SON by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN CALVARY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE WORMS AT HEAVEN'S GATE by WALLACE STEVENS ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 14. THE COMPLAINT by MARK AKENSIDE |