GENIUS LOCI.

What deity for dozing laziness

Devised the lounging coziness of this

Enchanted nook?— and how!— did I distress

His musing ease that fled but now, or his

Laughed frolic with some forest-sister, fair

As those wild hill-carnations are and rare?

Too true, alas!— Feel! the wild moss is warm

And moist with late reclining, as the palm

Of what hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap,

Props her hale cheek upon it, while her arm

Weak wind-flowers bury; in her hair the balm

Of a whole Spring of blossoms and of sap?

See, how the dented moss, that pads the hump

Of these distorted roots, elastic springs

From that god's late departure; lump by lump,

Pale tufts impressed twitch loose in nervous rings,

As crowding stars qualm thro’ gray evening skies.

Indulgence grant thou my profane surprise,

Pray!— then to dream where thou didst dream before,

Benevolent!... here where the veiny leaves

Bask broad the fuzzy bosoms of their hands

O'er wistful waters:‘ neath this sycamore,

Smooth, giraffe-brindled, where each ripple weaves

A twinkling quiver as of marching bands

Of Elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,

Split spilled the scaley sunbeams wrinkled off.

What brought thee here?— This wind that steals the old

Weird legends from the forests, with a scoff

To laugh them thro’ their beards? Or, in those weeds,

The hermit brook so busy with his beads?—

How many Aves, Paters doth he say

In one droned minute on his rosary

Of bubbles — wot'st thou?— Pucker-eyed didst mark

Yon lank hag-tapers, yellow by yon way,

A haggard company of seven?— See

How dry swim by such curled brown bits of bark?

Didst mark the ghostly gold of this grave, still,

Conceited minnow thro’ these twisted roots,

Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill,

Dull-slumbering here? Or did those insect flutes —

Sleepy with sunshine — buzz thee that forlorn

Tale of Tithonus and the bashful Morn?

Until two tears gleamed in the stealing stream

Trembling its polish o'er the winking grail?—

Nay! didst perplex thee with some poet plan

To drug this air with beauty to make dream,—

Ah, discreet Cunning, watching in yon vale!—

Me, wildwood-wandered from the marts of Man!