Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, re

verent 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 tomb-stone where

he lies;

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 swallows build.

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

loom.

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

door ;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Pusch

man's song, 18 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, 0 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,
Was the Norman baron lying ;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered,

And the castle-turret shook.

In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,
And the lands his sires had plundered,

Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster

From the missal on his knee ;

And, amid the tempest pealing,
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,
Bells that, from the neighbouring kloster,

Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal
Held that night their Christmas wassail ;
Many a carol, old and saintly,

Sang the minstrels and the waits.

And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,
That the storm was heard but faintly,

Knocking at the castle-gates.

Till at length the lays they chaunted
Reached the chamber terror-haunted,
Where the monk, with accents holy,

Whispered at the baron's ear.

Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
As he paused awhile and listened,
And the dying baron slowly

Turned his weary head to hear.

“ Wassail for the kingly stranger

Born and cradled in a manger !
King, like David, priest, like Aaron,

Christ is born to set us free !"

And the lightning shewed the sainted
Figures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shuddering baron,

Miserere, Domine !"

T