Are clad with dusky ivy; he whose base,
Bent by the storms of ages, stands unmov’d
Amidst the wreck of things—the change of time.
That base, encircl’d by the azure waves,
Was once with verdure clad; the towering oaks
Here waved their branches green; the sacred oaks,
Whose awful shades among the Druids stray’d,
To cut the hallow’d Mistletoe, and hold
High converse with their Gods.