NUREMBERG. 73 In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when art was still religion, with a simple reverent heart, Lived and labored 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 obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, 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. 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 splendor, 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 labor,-the long pedigree of toil. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. A Bingen on the Rhine. SOLDIER of the legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 75 The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land: Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine; For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground. That we fought the battle bravely, and, when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine, "Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen,-calm Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die; To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine. "There's another-not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning,-- Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen, "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,—I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,— But we meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the Rhine." His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,-his grasp was childish weak, His eyes put on a dying look,-he sighed and ceased to speak; THE LORE-LEI. 77 His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine. MRS. CAROLINE E. NORTON, The Lore-Lei. I KNOW not whence it rises, The air is cool, and it darkens, And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair; With gold is her garment glittering, With a golden comb she combs it, That melts the heart with a wondrous The boatman feels his bosom With a nameless longing move; He sees not the gulfs before him, His gaze is fixed above, |