Majestic Michael rises. He whose brow
Is crown'd with castles, and whose rocky sides
Are clad with dusky ivy: he whose base,
Beat by the storm of ages, stands unmoved
Amidst the wreck of things, the change of time.
That base encircled by the azure waves,
Was once with verdure clad: the tow'ring oaks
There waved their branches green,—the sacred oaks
Whose awful shades among, the Druids stray'd
To cut the hallow'd miseltoe, and hold