“Due honours once Dodona’s forest had, When oracles were through the Oaks conveyed. When woods instructed prophets to foretel, And the decrees of fate in trees did dwell.”
In course of time each tree of these sacred groves was held to be tenanted, or presided over, either by a god or goddess, or by one of the sylvan semi-deities. Impious was deemed he who dared to profane the sanctity of one of these nemorous retreats, either by damaging or by felling the consecrated trees. Rapin, in his Latin poem on Gardens, says:
“But let no impious axe profane the woods, Or violate the sacred shades; the Gods Themselves inhabit there. Some have beheld Where drops of blood from wounded Oaks distill’d; Have seen the trembling boughs with horror shake! So great a conscience did the ancients make To cut down Oaks, that it was held a crime In that obscure and superstitious time. When Driopeius Heaven did provoke, By daring to destroy th’ Æmonian Oak, And with it its included Dryad too, Avenging Ceres then her faith did show To the wrong’d nymph.”
When threatened with the woodman’s axe, the tutelary genius of the doomed tree would intercede for its life, the very leaves would sigh and groan, the stalwart trunk tremble with horror. Ovid relates how Erisichthon, a Thessalian, who derided Ceres, and cut down the trees in her sacred groves, was, for his impiety, afflicted with perpetual hunger. Of one huge old Oak the poet says--
“In the cool dusk its unpierc’d verdure spread The Dryads oft their hallow’d dances led.”
But the vindictive Erisichthon bade his hesitating servants fell the venerable tree, and, dissatisfied with their speed, seized an axe, and approached it, declaring that nothing should save the Oak:--
“He spoke, and as he pois’d a slanting stroke, Sighs heav’d 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.
The wonder all amaz’d: yet one more bold, The fact dissuading, strove his axe to hold; But the Thessalian, obstinately bent, Too proud to change, too harden’d to repent, On his kind monitor his eyes, which burn’d With rage, and with his eyes his weapon, turn’d; Take the reward (says he) of pious dread;-- Then with a blow lopp’d off his parted head. No longer check’d, the wretch his crime pursued, Doubled his strokes, and sacrilege renew’d; When from the groaning trunk a voice was heard,-- ‘A Dryad I,’ by Ceres’ love preferred, Within the circle of this clasping rind Coeval grew, and now in ruin join’d; But instant vengeance shall thy sin pursue, And death is cheered with this prophetic view.”