Old Snaefell lifts his mighty brow and looks

With calm demeanour o’er his realm of brooks,

Circled with his attendant heights that send

Their offspring, chattering streams, the vales to wend

On sinuous journeys to the waiting sea.

And nowhere does he gaze more lovingly

Than on Laxey valley, green and bare,

And all the signs of man’s endeavours there.

The ’deads’, mute evidence of projects run,

Now blossom into gardens in the sun;

And the great wheel that pumped the workings dry

Now tempts sightseers nearer to the sky.

And Laxey River, once deep-stained with ore,

More crystal clear flows to the curving shore,

Where in the little harbour pleasure craft

Ride for a summer’s voyage. Now a raft

Floats for the sport of swimmers. All the scene

Shows all the years that have elapsed between

The first grim battle and the later ploy

Now lure the hearts of men to seek for joy.

Yet on the western sky Snaefell still broods,

Reminding careless youth of solitudes

That wait in timeless vaults the end of day,

When with the sun these raptures steal away,

And hill and vale assume primeval grey.


Mona’s Herald     11.12.62