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Long was the good man's sermon,
Yet it seemed not so to me;
And still I thought of thee.
Yet it seemed not so to me;
my heart I prayed with him,
now, alas! the place seems changed ;
With thee did disappear.
Like pine-trees, dark and high,
A low and ceaseless sigh ;
As when the sun, concealed
Shines on a distant field.
NUREMBERG. In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad
meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg the
Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of
art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that
round them throng:
Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors,
rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries
And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their
uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through
In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an
iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Kunigunde’s
hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's
praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world
of Art : Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in
the common mart;
And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his
holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to
age their trust; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of
sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains rising through the
Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent
heart, Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of
Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy
hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better
Land. Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he
Dead he is not,-but departed,-for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems
more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has
breathed its air! Through these streets so broad and stately, these ob
scure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Master -singers, chanting rude
poetic strains, From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the
friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the
As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic
rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the
anvil's chime; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the
flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the
Iere Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the
gentle craft, Nisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang
and laughed. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded
floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the
door; Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's
song, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard
white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his
cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the Master's
antique chair. Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my
dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded
tapestry. Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the
world's regard; But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs, thy
cobbler-bard. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far
away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought
his careless lay: Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of
the soil, The nobility of labour,-the long pedigree of toil.
THE NORMAN BARON.
In his chamber, weak and dying,
And the castle-turret shook.
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Written in the Domesday Book.
From the missal on his knee;
Rang for the Nativity.
In the hall the serf and vassal
Sang the minstrels and the waits.
And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Knocking at the castle-gates;
Whispered at the baron's ear.