256 S Y L V A BOOK iv 



No beasts make there their dens ; no wind there blows ; 



No lightning falls : A sad religious awe, 



The quiet trees unstirr'd by wind do draw. 



Black water currents from dark fountains flow ; 



The Gods unpolish'd images do know 



No art, but plain, and formless trunks they are. 



Their moss and moldiness procures a fear : 



The common figures of known deities 



Are not so sear'd : Not knowing what God 'tis, 



Makes him more awful ; by relation 



The shaken earth's dark caverns oft did groan : 



Fallen yew-trees often of themselves would rise : 



With seeming fire oft flam'd th' unburned trees : 



And winding dragons the cold oaks embrace, 



None give near worship to that baleful place ; 



The people leave it to the Gods alone. 



When black night reigns, or Phoebus guilds the noon, 



The priest himself trembles, afraid to spy 



In th' awful woods its guardian deity. 



But now Erisichthon-like, and like him in punish- 

 ment ; for his was hunger, Caesar's thirst, and thirst 

 of human blood, reveng'd soon after in his own. 



The woods he bids them fell, not standing far 

 From all their work : Untouch'd in former war 

 Among the other bared hills it stands 

 Of a thick growth ; the soldiers valiant hands 

 Trembled to strike, mov'd with the majesty, 

 And think the ax from off the sacred tree 

 Rebounding back, would their own bodies wound : 

 Th' amazement of his men when Caesar found, 

 In his bold hand himself an hatchet took, 

 And first of all assaults a lofty oak ; 

 And having wounded the religious tree, 

 Let no man fear to fell this wood (quoth he) 

 The guilt of this offence let Caesar bear, &c. 



May. 



