The gentle slopes of Manxland’s hills descend
Into no lovelier glen than this, I ween,
With plunging falls and fir-treed pastures dressed;
Though one should search this isle from end to end,
And delve into its secret folds of green:
Away from mortal strife and man’s unrest.
A quiet place where plain and mountain blend,
Where loveliness makes this of glens the queen,
With dignity and tender graces blessed.
There feelings sweet and sad within contend,
For mem’ry conjures up with vision clear
The smiling eyes, now lidded, of my youth;
And in my ears, though faint, yet with stark truth,
Rings echoes of a golden long-lost year !
Mona’s Herald 20.3.62