54
Hence hath the place its guardian sanctities:
Men fear to touch the trophies of the skies:
No Cyclops harms its age, no flocks intrude,
E'en Polypheme avoids the holy solitude.
But Ceres is not stayed—no awe inspires
That solemn scene, and but her fury fires:
Her axe she reckless wields, intent to strike
Through Jove's loved trees, or Jove himself, alike.
In haste she dooms some stately pine to feel,
Or knotless cedar, her remorseless steel;
Fit trunk, straight stems and arms she strives to find,
With touch exploring, and observant mind.
E'en so the shipwright, building on the shore
The bark that soon, far distant waters o'er,
Must bear the rich freight, and the gallant crew,
Goes forth the forest's various growth to view:
On beech or alder looks with judging eyes,
And each, where useful, to its use applies.
For sail-extending yards he chooses length;
For masts requires close grain and solid strength;
For oars, the toughest woods, like pliant steel;
And those that bear the water, for the keel.
Two cypresses adorn'd the neighbouring copse,
And rear'd inviolate their lofty tops.
