"Ha! rejoice, old Father Euxine! I am brimming full and red; Noble tidings do I carry From my distant channel-bed. I have been a Christian river Dull and slow this many a year, Rolling down my torpid waters Through a silence morne and drear; Have not felt the tread of armies Trampling on my reedy shore; Have not heard the trumpet calling, Or the cannon's gladsome roar; Only listened to the laughter From the village and the town, And the church-bells, ever jangling, As the weary day went down. So I lay and sorely pondered On the days long since gone by, When my old primæval forests Echoed to the war-man's cry; When the race of Thor and Odin Held their battles by my side, And the blood of man was mingling Warmly with my chilly tide. Father Euxine! thou rememb'rest How I brought thee tribute then-- Swollen corpses, gashed and gory, Heads and limbs of slaughter'd men? Father Euxine! be thou joyful! I am running red once more-- Not with heathen blood, as early, But with gallant Christian gore! For the old times are returning, And the Cross is broken down, And I hear the tocsin sounding In the village and the town; And the glare of burning cities Soon shall light me on my way-- Ha! my heart is big and jocund With the draught I drank to-day. Ha! I feel my strength awakened, And my brethren shout to me; Each is leaping red and joyous To his own awaiting sea. Rhine and Elbe are plunging downward Through their wild anarchic land, Everywhere are Christians falling By their brother Christians' hand! Yea, the old times are returning, And the olden gods are here! Take my tribute, Father Euxine, To thy waters dark and drear. Therefore come I with my torrents, Shaking castle, crag, and town; Therefore, with the shout of thunder, Sweep I herd and herdsman down; Therefore leap I to thy bosom, With a loud triumphal roar-- Greet me, greet me, Father Euxine, I am Christian stream no more!" THE SCHEIK OF SINAI IN 1830 FROM THE GERMAN OF FREILIGRATH I. "Lift me without the tent, I say,-- Me and my ottoman,-- I'll see the messenger myself! It is the caravan From Africa, thou sayest, And they bring us news of war? Draw me without the tent, and quick! As at the desert well The freshness of the purling brook Delights the tired gazelle, So pant I for the voice of him That cometh from afar!" II. The Scheik was lifted from his tent, And thus outspake the Moor:-- "I saw, old Chief, the Tricolor On Algiers' topmost tower-- Upon its battlements the silks Of Lyons flutter free. Each morning, in the market-place, The muster-drum is beat, And to the war-hymn of Marseilles The squadrons pace the street. The armament from Toulon sailed: The Franks have crossed the sea." III.