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From “Wicklow”
YES, this is Wicklow; round our feet | |
| And o’er our heads its woodlands smile; | |
| Behold it, love—the garden sweet | |
| And playground of our stormy isle. * * * * * | |
| Is it not fair—the leafy land? | 5 |
| Not boasting Nature’s sterner pride, | |
| Voluptuous beauty, scenes that stand | |
| By minds immortal deified. * * * * * | |
| Fair when the woodland strains and creaks | |
| As loud the gathering whirlwinds blow, | 10 |
| And through the smoke-like mists the Peaks | |
| In warm autumnal purples glow; | |
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| When madly toss the bracken’s plumes | |
| Storm-swept upon the seaward steep, | |
| As far below them foams and fumes | 15 |
| On beach and cliff the wrathful deep, | |
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| Till cloud and tempest, creeping lower, | |
| Old Djouce’s ridges swathe in night, | |
| And down through all his hollows pour | |
| The foaming torrents swoln and white; | 20 |
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| Or when o’er Powerscourt’s leafless woods, | |
| With crests that down the tempest lean, | |
| Bend, braving winter’s fiercest moods, | |
| The pines in all their wealth of green. | |
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