A Druid’s sacred form he bore,
His robes a girdle bound:
Deep vers’d he was in ancient lore,
In customs old, profound.
A stick torn from that hallow’d tree
Where Chaucer us’d to sit,
And tell his tales with leering glee,
Supports his tott’ring feet.
High on a hill his mansion stood
But gloomy dark within;
Here mangled books, as bones and blood
Lie in a giant’s den.
Crude, undigested, half-devour’d,
On groaning shelves they’re thrown;
Such manuscripts no eye could read,
Nor hand write—but his own.
No prophet he, like Sydrophel,
Could future times explore;
But what had happen’d, he could tell,
Five hundred years and more.
A walking Alm’nack he appears,
Stept from some mouldy wall,
Worn out of use thro’ dust and years,
Like scutcheons in his hall.
His boots were made of that cow’s hide,
By Guy of Warwick slain;
Time’s choicest gifts, aye to abide
Among the chosen train.
Who first receiv’d the precious boon,
We’re at a loss to learn,
By Spelman, Camden, Dugdale, worn,
And then they came to Hearne.
Hearne strutted in them for a while;
And then, as lawful heir,
Browne claim’d and seiz’d the precious spoil,
The spoil of many a year.
His car himself he did provide,
To stand in double stead;
That it should carry him alive,
And bury him when dead.