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At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there,
Gold; Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; And her lighted bridal chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving West, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, “ I am Roland! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land !” Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.
THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
Startles the villages with strange alarms.
When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
Will mingle with their awful symphonies !
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
In long reverberations reach our own.
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamour,
O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
The diapason of the cannonade.
With such accursèd instruments as these,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals nor forts :
And every nation that should lift again
Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain !
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease;
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!
The holy melodies of love arise
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.
This is the place. Stand still, my | Through the closed blinds the golden sun steed,
Poured in a dusty beam,
Like the celestial ladder seen
And ever and anon the wind, The Past and Present here unite
Sweet-scented with the hay, Beneath Time's flowing tide, Turned o'er the hymn-book's fluttering Like footprints hidden by a brook,
leaves But seen on either side.
That on the window lay.
Long was the good man's sermon,
Yet it seemed not so to me; Through which I walked to church | For he spake of Ruth the beautiful, with thee,
And still I thought of thee.
Long was the prayer he uttered,
Yet it seemed not so to me;
For in my heart I prayed with him,
But now, alas! the place seems changed; Thy dress was like the lilies,
Thou art no longer here :
Part of the sunshine of the scene
With thee did disappear.
| Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my I saw the branches of the trees
heart, Bend down thy touch to meet, Like pine-trees, dark and high, The clover-blossoms in the grass Subdue the light of noon, and breathe Rise up to kiss thy feet.
A low and ceaseless sigh; "Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, This memory brightens o'er the past, Of earth and folly born!"
As when the sun, concealed Solemnly san; the village choir Behind some cloud that near us hangs, On that sweet Sabbath morn.
Shines on a distant field.
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
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,
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
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, . Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.
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,
Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil,