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Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, re
verent heart, Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist
Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy
hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better
Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where
Dead he is not,--but departed,--for the artist never
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
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, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the
Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the
flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the
Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the
gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios
sang and laughed.17
But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely
sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the
Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Pusch
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
Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my
dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded
Not thy councils, not thy kaisers, win for thee the
world's regard ; But thy painter Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy
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.
“ Dans les moments de la vie où la réflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, où l'intérêt et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posséder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes à son image.”
THIERRY, Conquête de l'Angleterre.
In his chamber, weak and dying,
And the castle-turret shook.
In this fight was Death the gainer,
Written in the Doomsday Book.
By his bed a monk was seated,
From the missal on his knee ;
And, amid the tempest pealing,
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.
Till at length the lays they chaunted
Whispered at the baron’s ear.
Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
Turned his weary head to hear.
“ Wassail for the kingly stranger
Born and cradled in a manger !
Christ is born to set us free !"
And the lightning shewed the sainted
Miserere, Domine !"