Classic Poem

A WAKE , my Muse!—together let us sing
Of hills and groves and sweet sequester'd vales—
Of feather'd tribes that make the valleys ring—
And of the gurgling brook that never fails,
But murmurs hoarsely from the depths below,
Swelling in floods within the darken'd dell,
Deep'ning its course for ever in its flow
Thro' craggy glens, where wizards love to dwell;
Of rugged mountains, clad in mossy vest,
Towering on high their dark gigantic forms,
With far outspreading base and taper'd crest
That's stood the rage of countless winters' storms;—
Of North Barrule, nodding o'er Maughold's plains,
Paying due homage to vast Snaefell's height,
While Pen-y-Pot o'er Lonan still maintains
Its evening shadows with undoubted right;—
Of Barrule, Rushen, which the South commands,
And kindly shelters from the western blast
The lowland cultured fields and rocky strands,
When stormy clouds the wintry skies o'ercast.