As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood, 
 That crests its Head with clouds, beneath the flood
 Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank
 Of its wide base controls the fronting bank,
 (By the slant current's pressure scoop'd away
 The fronting bank becomes a foam-piled bay)
 High in the Fork the uncouth Idol knits
 His channel'd Brows; low murmurs stir by fits
 And dark below the horrid Faquir sits;
 An Horror from its broad Head's branchy wreath
 Broods o'er the rude Idolatry beneath--