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