Classic Poem

In various Shapes thus to deceive the Eyes,
Without a settled Stint of her Disguise,
Rash I risichthum 's Daughter had the Pow'r,
And brought it to Intolicus in Dow'r
Her Atheift Sire the flighted Gods desy'd,
And ritual Honours to their Shrines denv'd.
As Fame reports, his Hand an Ax full in'd,
Which Ceres confedrated Grove prophan'd;
Which durst the venerable Gloom invade,
And violate with Light the awful Shade.
An ancient Oak in the dark Center stood,
The Covert's Glory and itself a Wood
Garlands embrac'd its Shaft, and from the Boughs
Hung Tablets, Monuments of prosp'rous Vows
In the cool Dusk its unpierc'd Verdure spread,
The Dryads oft their hallow'd Dances led
And oft, when round their gaging Arms they cast
Full fifteen Ells it measur'd in the Waste:
Its Height all under Standards did surpass,
As they aspir'd above the humbler Grass
These Motives, which would gentler Minds restrain,
Could not make Triope 's bold Son abstain;
He sternly charg'd his Slaves with strict Decree,
To fell with gashing Steel the sacred Tree.
But whilst they, lingring, his Commands delay'd,
He snatch'd an Ax, and thus blaspheming said:
Was this no Oak, nor Ceres ' fav'rite Care,
But Ceres ' self, this Arm, unaw'd, shou'd dare
Its leasy Honours in the Dust to spread,
And level with the Earth its airy Head.
He spoke, and as he poiz'd a slanting Stroak,
Sighs heav'd, and Tremblings shook the frighted Oak,
Its Leaves look'd sickly, pale its Acorns grew,
And its long Branches sweat a chilly Dew
But when his impious Hand a Wound bestow'd,
Blood from the mangled Bark in Currents flow'd.
When a devoted Bull of mighty Size,
A sinning Nation's grand Atonement, dies;
With such a Plenty from the spouting Veins,
A crimson Stream the turfy Altar stains.
The Wonder all amaz'd yet one more hold,
The Fact disswading, Prove his into bold
But the Thessalian , obstinately bend
Too proud to change too haide their head,
On his kind Monidor his Eyes, which burn'd!
With Rage, and with his Eyes his Weapon turn'd
Take the Reward says he, of pious Dread:
Then with a Blow top'd off his parted Head.
No longer check'd the Wretch his Crime pursu'd,
Doubled his Strokes, and Sacrilege renew'd;
When from the groaning Trunk a Voice was heard,
A Dryad I, by Ceres ' Love prefer'd,
Within the Circle of this clasping Rind
Coeval grew, and now in Ruin joyn'd;
But instant Vengeance shall thy Sin pursue,
And Death is chear'd with this prophetick View,
At last the Oak with Cords enforc'd to bow,
Strain'd from the Top, and sap'd with Wounds below,
The humbler Wood, Partaker of its Fate,
Crush'd with its Fall, and shiver'd with its Weight.
The Grove destroy'd, the Sister Dryads moan,
Griev'd at its Loss, and frighted at their own.
Strait, Suppliants for Revenge, to Ceres go,
In sable Weeds, expressive of their Woe.
The beauteous Goddess with a graceful Air
Bow'd in Consent, and nodded to their Pray'r.
The awful Motion shook the fruitful Ground,
And wav'd the Fields with golden Harvests crown'd.
Soon she contriv'd in her projecting Mind
A Plague severe, and piteous in its Kind,
(If Plagues for Crimes of such presumptuous Height
Could Pity in the softest Breast create)
With pinching Want, and Hunger's keenest Smart,
To tear his Vitals, and corrode his Heart.
But since her near Approach by Fate's deny'd
To Famine, and broad Climes their Pow'r divide,
A Nymph, the Mountain's Ranger; she address'd,
And thus resolv'd, her high commands empress'd.