S Y L V A 249 



Much like a mighty ox, that falls before 



The sacred altar, spouting streams of gore. 



On all amazement seiz'd : When one of all 



The crime deters, nor would his ax let fall. 



Contracting his stern brows ; Receive, said he, 



Thy pieties reward ; and from the tree 



The stroke converting, lops his head ; then strake 



The oak again ; from whence a voice thus spake : 



A nymph am I, within this tree inshrin'd, 



Belov'd of Ceres, O prophane of mind, 



Vengeance is near thee : with my parting breath, 



I prophesie, a comfort to my death. 



He still his guilt pursues ; who over-throws 



With cables, and innumerable blows, 



The sturdy oak ; which nodding long, down rush'd, 



And in his lofty fall his fellows crush'd. 



Sandys. 



But a sad revenge follows it, as the poet will tell 

 you ; and one might fill a just volume with the 

 histories of groves that were violated by wicked men, 

 who came to fatal periods ; especially those upon 

 which the misselto grew, than which nothing was 

 reputed more sacred, 



1 To misselto the Druids us'd to sing. 

 For among such oaks they usually dwelt, 



Nemora alta remotis 



Incolitis lucis 



Lucan. 



with whose leaves they adorn'd and celebrated their 

 religious rites. The Druids, says Pliny, lib. 1 6. c. 4. 

 (for so they call their divines) esteem nothing more 



1 Ad viscum Druidae, Druidae cantare solebant. 



ff 



