Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/75

Rh 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 , 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 , 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. That