 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
13
SKYRRID VAWR.
Therefore, when Britain in her rude young prime(God's Israel to come, as time hath shown,)
Trembled in all her hills at Judah's crime,
Down toppled in their sympathy sublime
Our crags from many a high-peak'd mountain-throne,
And Skyrrid, falling with a thunder-groan,
Became this ruin: so, of ancient time
Men have accounted it a holy place;
And Superstition's sly monastic face
Hath doted here for ages: even now
Priestcraft can promise some superior grace
For those who to St. Michael's summit toil,
And gather thence, as reverently they bow,
A coffin-handful of the sacred soil.
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