Handling his mystic prongs as Merlin taught,
Or later follower of the magic school.
Now over hill-tops, stony as the mounds
The Indian warriors raise above their slain,
Then down in valleys, where the sun ne’er shines,
Fringed round with sylvan borders dense and rank,
He trudges, looking wiser than the one
Who passes o’er the busy brain his hand,
And wraps the senses in a sleep profound.
At length, above a vale where willows bend,