His rod was honest English wood,
That senseless in a corner stood,
Till, metamorphos'd by his grasp,
It grew an all-devouring asp;
Would hiss, and sting, and roll, and twist,
By the mere virtue of his fist;
But, where he laid it down, as quick
Resum'd the figure of a stick.
So, to her midnight feasts, the hag
Rides on a broomstick for a nag,
That, rais'd by magick of her breech,
O'er sea and land conveys the witch;
But with the morning dawn resumes
The peaceful state of common brooms.
They tell us something strange and odd,
About a certain magick rod[1],
That bending down its top, divines
Whene'er the soil has golden mines;
Where there are none, it stands erect,
Scorning to show the least respect;
As ready was the wand of Sid,
To bend where golden mines were hid;
In Scottish hills found precious ore[2],
Where none e'er look'd for it before;
And by a gentle bow divin'd
How well a cully's purse was lin'd;
To a forlorn and broken rake,
Stood without motion, like a stake.
The rod of Hermes was renown'd
For charms above, and under ground;
To sleep could mortal eyelids fix,
And drive departed souls to Styx.
- ↑ The virgula divina, said to be attracted by minerals.
- ↑ Supposed to allude to the Union.
