Nine branches, when cropp'd by the hands of the Nine,
And duly arranged in a parallel line,
Tied up in nine folds of a mystical string,
And soak'd for nine days in cold Helicon spring,
Form a sceptre composed for a pedagogue's hand,
Like the Fasces of Rome, a true badge of command.
The sceptre thus finish'd, like Moses's rod,
From flints could draw tears, and give life to a clod.
Should darkness Egyptian, or ignorance, spread
Their clouds o'er the mind, or envelope the head,