The poem
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--