THE ROCK.

Here, at its base, in dingled deeps

Of spice-bush, where the ivy creeps,

The cold spring scoops its hollow;

And there three mossy stepping-stones

Make ripple murmurs; undertones

Of foam that blend and follow

With voices of the wood that drones.

The quail pipes here when noons are hot;

And here, in coolness sunlight-shot

Beneath a roof of briers,

The red-fox skulks at close of day;

And here at night, the shadows gray

Stand like FRANCISCAN friars,

With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.

Here yawns the ground-hog's dark-dug hole;

And there the tunnel of the mole

Heaves under weed and flower;

A sandy pit-fall here and there

The ant-lion digs and lies a-lair;

And here, for sun and shower,

The spider weaves a silvery snare.

The poison-oak's rank tendrils twine

The rock's south side; the trumpet-vine,

With crimson bugles sprinkled,

Makes green its eastern side; the west

Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed

Into an angle wrinkled,

The hornets hang an oblong nest.

The north is hid from sun and star,

And here,— like an Inquisitor

Of Faery Inquisition,

That roots out Elf-land heresy,—

Deep in the rock, with mystery

Cowled for his grave commission,

The Owl sits magisterially.