All yesterday you were so near to me, It seemed as if I hardly moved or spoke But your heart moved with mine. I woke To a new life that found you everywhere, As if your love was as some wide-girt sea, Or as the sunlit air; And so encompassed me, Whether I thought or not, it could not but be there. To-day your words approve me, and your heart Is mine as ever, yet that heavenly sense Of oneness that made every hour intense With Love's full perfectness, is gone from thence; And, though our hands are clasped, our souls are two, And in my thoughts I say, "This is myself--this you!" MARY STEWART DOUBLEDAY. THE RIDE OF PRINCE GERAINT. The Ride of Prince Geraint. And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode By ups and downs through many a glassy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three. _Enid_. Through forest paths his charger strode, His heron plume behind him flowed, Blood-red the west with sunset glowed, Far down the river golden flowed, And in the woods the winds were still: No helm had he, nor lance in rest; His knightly beard flowed down his breast; In silken costume gayly drest, Out from the glory of the west He flashed adown the purple hill. His sword hung tasseled at his side, His purple scarf was floating wide, And all his raiment many-dyed, As if he came to seek a bride, And not the combat that he sought; Yet rode he like a prince, and one Native to noble deeds alone, Who many a valiant tilt had run, And many a prize of tourney won In Arthur's lists at Camelot. Cool grasses and green mosses made Soft carpet for his charger's tread, As 'neath the oak boughs dark o'erhead, By belts of pasture scant of shade, Into the Castle Town he rode: He heard, as things are heard in dreams, The sound of far-off falling streams, The shriller bird-choir's evening hymns: He saw but only helmet-gleams, The smith that smote, the fire that glowed, The sheen of lances, and the cloud From many a field-forge fire, the crowd Of gay-clad squires, and, neighing loud, The war-horse with rich trappings proud, That arched his neck and pawed the ground; Old armorers grave and stern in stall, Where low-crowned morions, helmets tall, Shone gilt and burnished on the wall; And, shining brighter than them all, The eyes of maidens sun-embrowned. MARTIN I. GRIFFIN. SKETCHES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. I.--THE COUNT DE BEAUVOIR IN CHINA.