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There Russia looms, or mist-wreaths cheat the eye,
Now that the Strait, her seven fair bays unwinding,
But lo! Stamboul! A thousand sunset fires
To day my thirsty spirit sought to drink
THE EARTH'S HEART.
(From the same.)
A calmly throbbing motion,
As true as that of ocean.
2. Sit by yon bay where Rothay comes
With merry sparkling fall To rest within the glassy pool
Beneath the fern-fringed Wall ;
3. And see how like a real tide,
Encroaching and retreating, Upon the polished gravel bed
The uneven stream is beating ;
Straight on it could not flow,
Like some poor hunted roe,
From its blue hollows ever,
Is sighing forth the river.
6. And thus the breath of the huge hills,
Among wet mosses sobbing, Works alway through the upland springs
With momentary throbbing.
7. And on the drear autumnal days,
When o'er the naked heath he wind is riding, still it hath A palpitating breath.
8. And in the woods the evening air
A breathing spirit dwells, Still cooing like a turtle dove,
A shy voice in the dells.
That leap with such a cry
Into a wood-land sigh.
Swift echo on the heath
A runner out of breath.
But of the solemn earth,
A heart in all her mirth,
12. The dashing rivers are her joy,
The pinewood plaint her sadness, The clamorous tempest is her rage,
The earthquake is her madness.
13. The past is in her,--the long past,
With all its light and gloom, What wonder then there should be throes,
In such a teeming womb ?
Sinks to it with a stir ;
That hath gone into her.
Proud-minded kings and villain priests,
And, by the will of fate, Enough to make another earth Of love unfortunate.
And things whereof my youth had dreamed,
Were given unto my eager sight, Some brighter than my thoughts had deemed,
And some that scarcely seemed so bright.
And now, for I was all alone,
My English heart was homeward turning, When by a gate of sculptured stone,
I sate me down one sunny morning.
It led into a garden bright
Within a roofless castle's bound,
Girded a mossy terrace round.
And I, their dwelling's lonely ranger,
And felt me desolate and a stranger.
In such low mood it chanced I gazed,
Where o'er the arch a tablet saith How Frederic had that garden raised
For his young bride Elizabeth.
That name had sacred powers to wake
Such thoughts in me as could none other, If 'twere but for the honored sake
Of her and of her martyred brother.
For she was child of England's king,
And to her home beyond the water, A high-enduring soul did bring,
As might beseem a Stuart's daughter.
And many an uncomplaining year
She bore her heritage of woes; But 'twas more dear a memory yet
Which at that name's sweet bidding rose.
Thou gentle soul, so early gone !
'Twas thou didst look upon me then, And I was glad I was alone,
A wanderer among foreign men.
LINES BY THE SAME.
Thou wert the first of all I knew
To pass unto the dead,
Since there thy presence fled.
The whispers of thy gentle soul
At silent lonely hours,
Betwixt thy world and ours.
Oh! still my spirit clings to thee
And feels thee at my side,
Within its arms hath died ;