Long was the good man's sermon, Long was the prayer he uttered, But now, alas! the place seems changed; Part of the sunshine of the scene Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, Subdue the light of noon, and breathe This memory brightens o'er the past, Behind some cloud that near us hangs, THE OCCULTATION OF ORION.* O'er East and West its beam impended; And down the sunless realms of space * Astronomically speaking, this title is incorrect, as I apply to a constellation what can properly be applied to some of its stars only. But my observation is made from the hill of song, and not from that of science, and will, I trust, be found sufficiently accurate for the present purpose. Reverberates the thunder of his bass. His sword hung gleaming by his side, Thus moving on, with silent pace, His mighty club no longer beat And like an instrument that flings - The trumpet of the angel cast And on from sphere to sphere the words "For evermore, for evermore, The reign of violence is o'er!" NUREMBERG. IN the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian Mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 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, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 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 painted air. * An old popular proverb of the town runs thus: "Nürnberg's Hand Geht durch alle Land." "Nuremberg's hand Goes through every land." † Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his Teuerdank was the reigning emperor, Maximilian; and the poem was to the Germans of that day what the Orlando Furioso was to the Italians. Maximilian is mentioned before, in the Belfry of Bruges. See page 449. The tomb of St Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who laboured upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. § This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture in white stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly-painted windows cover it with varied colours. 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 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, Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song,† And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original Corporation of the Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well as the most voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth century; and left behind him thirty-four folio volumes of manuscript, containing two hundred and eight plays, one thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and between four and five thousand lyric poems. Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he appeared in a vision: "An old man, Gray and white, and dove-like, 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 pcsséder 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, In this fight was Death the gainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, By his bed a monk was seated, From the missal on his knee; And, amid the tempest pealing, In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; Sang the minstrels and the waits. And so loud these Saxon gleemen Turned his weary head to hear. |