Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow,
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder’d, and their pulse beat low;
And as they look’d, they found their horror grew,
And shap’d it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac’d;
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,