Уильям Вордсворт (William Wordsworth)

Tynwald Hill

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.

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