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.