There Russia looms, or mist-wreaths cheat the eye, And there, where yon white ship hath set her helm, The clime where earth, their thoughtless earth, discloses These are the shadows bygone or to be Which flit along thy coasts, dread Euxine Sea! 7. Now that the Strait, her seven fair bays unwinding, By torchlike song or legendary shape, The sight of thee, dread Euxine ! calm and near, 8. But lo! Stamboul! A thousand sunset fires 9. To day my thirsty spirit sought to drink Of dreadful legends on the Black Sea's brink ; This sunset is a trouble in my soul; Deep in my heart I heard the Euxine roll, I felt it in me as a mighty thought, The block whence forms of grandeur might be wrought : But now 'twixt light and gloom my mind is tossed, I hear the murmur of the Euxine Sea! THE EARTH'S HEART. (From the same.) 1. THERE is a pulse in flowing streams, 2. Sit by yon bay where Rothay comes 3. And see how like a real tide, 4. As if, although 'twas flowing down, 5. And at the river-head the lake 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, A palpitating breath. 8. And in the woods the evening air 9. Those dazzling things, the water-falls, In leafy clefts, sink down at times 10. Like one whose heart is in his mouth, Speeds onward, shedding broken words, 11. I speak not of the heaving sea, I would thou shouldst believe there is 12. The dashing rivers are her joy, 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? 14. Her heart grows larger as each day Sinks to it with a stir; It makes me grave to think of all 15. Proud-minded kings and villain priests, And, by the will of fate, Enough to make another earth Of love unfortunate. 16. Then, when thou walkest on the hills, 17. The joy and grief of centuries 18. Sweet Alice! when thy blameless past, The world will find, and know not why, HEIDELBERG. BY THE REV. THOMAS WHYTEHEAD. I ROAMED through many a city proud 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, Whose silent halls and towers of might Girded a mossy terrace round. And kings did from their niches look, The sadness of the scene partook And felt me desolate and a stranger. In such low mood it chanced I gazed, That name had sacred powers to wake Of her and of her martyred brother. For she was child of England's king, As might beseem a Stuart's daughter. And many an uncomplaining year 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 And Paradise hath seemed more true, The whispers of thy gentle soul Like some sweet saint-bell's distant toll Come o'er the waters as they roll Oh! still my spirit clings to thee |