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THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing

Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ahl what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,

When the death angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,

The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us,

In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, 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 soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,

The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,

The diapason of the cannopade.
Is it, О man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these,

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,

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 :

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!

And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain !

Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then

cease! And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 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! But beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

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 thein 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, Stands the mighty linden, planted by Queen Cuni

gunde's hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old

heroic days Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximi

lian's praise. 10 Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous

world of Art, Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing

in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways, saints and bishops

carved in stone, By a former age commissioned as apostles to our

Own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined

his holy dust, 11 And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from

age to age their trust;

12

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 laboured Albrecht Dürer, the Evan

gelist 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 tombstone

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 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, 13 in huge

folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an alehouse, 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, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great

beard white and long.

14

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.

far away,

Thus, 0 Nuremberg, a wanderer, from a region 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.

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