“He spoke, and as he pois’d a slanting stroke,
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.
* * * * * * * *
The wonder all amaz’d: yet one more bold,
The fact dissuading, strove his axe to hold;
But the Thessalian, obstinately bent,