Looking east on a clear day the view is superb. From Claudeboye woods and lakes, Belfast Lough and the Antrim hills on the left, the eye sweeps round to Cantire and the Scotch coast, till distance is lost in the dim range of Cumberland hills.
Descending again, we enter the principal chamber—octagonal, oak-paneled, with groined pointed ceiling and stained-glass windows. On these are numerous quaint designs, intermixed with the signs of the zodiac, showing the pursuits of mankind during the progress of the seasons—from the sturdy sower of spring to the shrivelled old man warming his toes by the winter fire. Over the fire-place is a niche for a silver lamp, and flanking the west window are two poetical inscriptions—that on the left, printed in gold and having reference to the lamp, is by Lord Dufferin’s mother; and that on the right, printed in bold black type, is by the poet-laureate.
On reading Lady Gifford’s graceful verses, we are pathetically reminded that she was not spared to see her son’s brilliant career. I give them here, and the laureate’s sonorous lines stand at the head of this paper.
TO MY DEAR SON ON HIS TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.
[With a Silver Lamp.—“Fiat Lux.”]
How shall I bless thee? Human Love
Is all too poor in passionate words!
The heart aches with a sense above
All language that the lip affords!