Dark oozing sweat from every branch distilled,
And as the scoffer smote it, crimson-red
Gushed from the wounded bark the sap, as streams
When at the altar falls some mighty bull
The life-blood from his neck.
Then from its heart
Issued a voice, “Thou strikest in this trunk
A nymph whom Ceres loves, and for the deed
Dearly shalt pay. With my last voice thy doom
I prophesy, and in thy imminent fate