ABSTRACT
From “The Rod,” a poem in three cantos, by Henry Layng Fellow of New College, Oxford. A Tree there is, such was Apollo’s will, That grows uncultured on the Muses’ Hill, Its type in heaven the blest immortals know, There called the Tree of Science, birch below. These characters observed, thy guide shall be, Unerring guide to the mysterious tree. Smooth like its kindred poplar, to the skies The trunk ascends, and quivering branches rise: By teeming seeds it propagates its kind, And with the year renew’d it casts the rind; Pierc’d by the matron’s hand, her bowl it fills Scarce yielding to the vine’s nectareous rills. Of this select, full in the moon’s eclipse, Of equal size thrice three coeval slips, Around the osier’s flexile band entwine, And all their force in strictest union join. Each muse shall o’er her favourite twig preside, Sacred to Phœbus let their band be tied: With this, when sloth and negligence provoke, Thrice let thy vengeful arm impress the stroke, Then shalt thou hear loud clamours rend the breast— Attentive hear, and let the sound be blest: So when the priestess at the Delphic shrine Roar’d loud, the listening votary hail’d the sign.
