These motives, which would gentler minds restrain, Could not make Triope’s bold son abstain; He sternly charged his slaves with strict decree To fell with gashing steel the sacred tree. But while they, lingering, his commands delay’d, He snatch’d an axe, and thus blaspheming said: “Was this no oak, nor Ceres’ favourite care, But Ceres’ self, this arm, unawed, should dare Its leafy honours in the dust to spread, And level with the earth its airy head.” He spoke, and as he poised a slanting stroke, Sighs heaved, 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. When a devoted bull of mighty size, A sinning nation’s grand atonement, dies, With such a plenty from the spouting veins, A crimson stream the turfy altars stains.