Th’ impatient axe hung gleaming in his hands;
Brandished on high, it fell with dreadful sound,
The tall mast groaning felt the deadly wound;
Deep gashed beneath, the tottering structure rings,
And crashing, thundering, o’er the quarter swings:
Thus, when some limb, convulsed with pangs of death,
Imbibes the gangrene’s pestilential breath,
Th’ experienced artist from the blood betrays
The latent venom, or its course delays;
But if th’ infection triumphs o’er his art,