At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high, And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. I beheld the pageants splendid, that adorned those days of old; Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 66 I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!" Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, Were half the power, that fills the world with terror. Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts: The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd! Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! Down the dark future, through long generations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. THIS is the place. Stand still, my | Through the closed blinds the golden sun steed, Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy Past The Past and Present here unite Here runs the highway to the town; O gentlest of my friends! The shadow of the linden-trees Lay moving on the grass; Thy dress was like the lilies, And thy heart as pure as they : I saw the branches of the trees "Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, Poured in a dusty beam, By Jacob in his dream. And ever and anon the wind, Sweet-scented with the hay, Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering leaves That on the window lay. Long was the good man's sermon, Long was the prayer he uttered, Yet it seemed not so to me; But now, alas! the place seems changed; Part of the sunshine of the scene Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my Like pine-trees, dark and high, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe A low and ceaseless sigh; This memory brightens o'er the past, NUREMBERG. IN the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands 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 old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 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 in stone, In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure 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 swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, 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 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, |