S Y L V A 277 



The festival approach'd ; with one consent 



All on the rites of Pales are intent : 



While these unmindful of the holy-day, 



Their nets to dry upon the shore display. 



But vengeance soon th' offenders overtook, 



Persisting still to labour in the brook. 



The angry goddess fix'd them to the shore, 



And for their fault doom'd them to work no more. 



Thus to eternal idleness condemn'd ; 



They felt the weight of heaven, when contemn'd. 



The moisture of those streams by which they stand, 



Endues them both with power to expand 



Their leaves abroad ; leaves, which from guilt look pale ; 



In which the never-ceasing frogs bewail. 



Let lofty hills, and each declining ground, 

 (For there they flourish) with tall firs abound. 

 Layers of these cut from some ancient grove, 

 And buried deep in mould, in time will move 

 Young shoots above the earth, which soon disdain 

 The southern blasts, and launch into the main. 



But in more even fields the ash delights, 



Where a good soil the gen'rous plant invites. 



For from an ash, which Pelion once did bear, 



Divine Achilles took that happy spear, 



Which Hector kill'd ; and in their champion's fate 



Involv'd the ruin of the Trojan state. 



The gods were kind to let brave Hector die 



By arms, as noble as his enemy. 



Ash, like the stubborn heroe in his end, 



Always resolves rather to break than bend. 



Some tears are due to the Heliades ; 



Those many which they shed deserve no less. 



Griev'd for their brother's death, in woods they range, 



And worn with sorrow, into poplars change. 



By which their grief was rend'red more divine, 



While all their tears in precious amber shine. 



These, with your other plants, still propagate : 



'Tis true indeed they are appropriate 



To Italy alone, and near the Po, 



Who gave them their first being, best they grow. 



