Alone, locks dishevelled, I trembling arise,
And I know not the drift of my dreaming.
WHO WAS HE?
A STORY OF PETER THE GREAT.
Upon the mighty Neva’s bank,
Along the winding woodland way,
A Horseman rode, in forest wilds
Of elm, of pine, of mosses grey.
Before him rose a Fisher’s hut;
Beneath a pine, by the blue stream,
An aged, bearded Fisherman