Accolon of Gaul Part 11

The press on him puissant bare And smote him to the rush-strown earth;-- Tall, tall o'er all that Fairy rose Aloud with mirth.

GENIUS LOCI.

I.

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?

II.

See, how the dented moss, that pads the hump Of these distorted roots, elastic springs From that G.o.d'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

III.

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?

IV.

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 t.i.thonus 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!