The past is slipping from our hold, as shadowy as dreams,
The dim, mysterious, lifeless past,—how faint, unreal it seems.
But here and there we come across some waif upon the shore,
Thrown landward by the waves of time, for man to ponder o’er.—J. B.
Having the day before us, we take our course to Madron, and only pause
when near the village to turn round and admire the splendid landscape.