And ask his counsel and his prayer;
All white with age, inspir’d he stands,
And lifts to heaven his wrinkled hands!
So seems the affrighted forest, drawn
In crowds around this lonely lawn:
High in the midst with many a frown
Huge Swilcar shakes his tresses brown,[[34]]
Out-spreads his bare arms to the skies,
The ruins of six centuries,
Deep groans pervade his rifted rind—