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ground, Rattle the clattering cars, and the shock'd axles bound But when
arrived at Ida's spreading woods, (Fair Ida, water'd with descending


floods,) Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes On all sides
round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets
brown Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. The wood the
Grecians cleave, prepared to burn And the slow mules the same rough road

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