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 Fary Inquisition,     That roots out Elf-land heresy, -     Deep in the rock, with mystery         Cowled for his grave commission,     The Owl sits magisterially.