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This is the place. Stand still, roy steed,

Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite

Beneath Time's flowing tide, Like footprints hidden by a brook,

Bnt seen on either side.

Here ruus the highway to the town;

There the green lane descends, Throngh which I walked to chureh with thee,

O gentlest of my friends!

The shadow of the linden-trees

Lay moving on the grass;
Between them and the moving bonghs,

A shadow, thon didst pass.

Thy dress was like the lilies,

And thy heart as pure as they; One of God's holy messengers

Did walk with me that day,

I saw the branches of the trees

Bend down thy tonch to meet, The clover-blossoms in the grass

Rise up to kiss thy feet.

"Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,

Of earth and folly born!" Solemuly sang the village choir

On that sweet Sabbath morn.

Throngh the closed blinds the golden sun

Ponred in a dusty beam, Like the celestial ladder seen

By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon, the wind,

Sweet-scented with the hay. Turned o'er the hyum-book's flnttering leaves,

That on the window lay.

Long was the good man's sermon,

Yet it seemed not so to me:
For he spake of Rnth the beantiful,

And still I thonght of thee.

Long was the prayer he nttered,

Yet it seemed not so to me;
For in my heart I prayed with him.

And still I thonght of thee.

Bnt now, alas! the place seems changed;

Thon art no longer here.
Part of the suushine of the scene

With thee did disappear.

Thongh thonghts, deep-rooted in my heart,

Like pine-trees dark and high. Subdne the light of noon, and breathe

Alow and ceaseless sigh;

This memory brighteus o'er the past,

As when the sun, concealed
Behind some clond that near us hangs

Shines on a distant fiefil.


This is the Arsenal. From floor tc ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;

Bnt from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sonnd will rise, how wild and
When the death-angel tonches those swift
What lond lament and dismal Miserere .
Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fieree chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan.

Which, throngh the ages that have gone before
In long reverberatious reach onr own.

On heim and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Throngh CImbrIc forest roars the Norseman's song.

And lond, amid the universal clamonr.
O'er distant deserts sonnds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels ont his battle-bell with dreadful din.

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;

The tuumlt of each sacked and burning village;

The shont that every prayer for merey drowus; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wall of famine in beleagnered towus;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, ,

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

The diapason of the caunonade.

Is it, O man, with snch discordant noises,
With snch aecursed iustruments as these,

Thou downest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies'' i

Wore half the power, that fills the world with terror. Were halt the wealth, bestowed on camps and conrts. Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts.

The warrior's name wonld be a name abhorred!

And every nation, that shonld lift again Its hand agaiust a brother on its forehead

Wonld wear for evermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark fnture, throngh long generatious, The echoing sonnds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibratious, I hear once more the voice of Christ say b1 Peace!"

!oaee I and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!

Bit beantiful as songs of the immortals,
'Ihe holy melodies of love arise.


Is tht valley of the Pcguitx, where across broad

neadow-lands Rise the blne Francoulan monntaius, Nuremberg, tie ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffie, quaint old

town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the

rooks that ronnd them throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rongh and bold,

Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in

their unconth rhyme, That their great Imperial city stretched its hand

throngh every clime.i°

in the conrt-yard of the castle, bonnd with many

au iron band. Stands the mighty linden planted by Qneen

Cunigunde s hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days

Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.!i

Everywhere I see aronnd mo rise the wondruus world of Art:

Fonntaius wronght 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 onr own.

In the chureh of sainted Sebald sleeps eushrined

his holy dust,iAnd in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from

age to age their trust;

in the chureh of sainted Lawrence stands a pix

of sculpture rare,!3 Like the foamy sheaf of fonntaius, rising throngh

the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart.

Lived and labonred Aibrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, tolling still with

busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the

Better Land.

Emigravit is the iuscription on the tomb-stone

where he lies; Dead he is not,—bnt departed,—for tho artist

never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the suushine

seems more fair. That he once had trod its pavement, that he once

had breathed its air;

Throngh these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,

Walked of yore tho Master singers, chanting rnde poetic straius.

From remote and suuless suburbs, came they to

the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great Temple, as in

sponts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shnttle, wove he too

the mystic rhyme. And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime;

Thanking God, whose bonndless wisdow makes

the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust ami cinders, in the tissnes of

the loom.

Here Haus Sachs, the cubler-poet, laureate of

the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Musters,!* in huge

folios sang and laughed.

Bnt his honse is now an ale-honse, with a nicely

sanded floor. And a garland in tho window, and his face

above the door;

Painted by some humble artists, as in Admn

Puschman's song,'* As the old man grey and dove-like, with his

great white beard and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his eark and care,

Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antiqne chair

Vanished is the ancient splendonr, and before

my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a

faded tapestry.

Not thy Conncils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee

the world's regard; Bnt thy painter, Aibrecht Dilrer, and Haus

Sachs, thy cobbler bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region

far away, As he paced thy streets and conrt-yards, sang in

far away e paced tr. thonght his careless lay;

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a

floweret of the soil. The nobility of labonr,—the long pedigree of toll.

THE NORMAN BARON. Daus les moments de la vie oh la reflexion devient plus caime et phis profonde, on l'int^ret et l'avarice parlent moius haul que la raison, daus les iustants de chagrin domestiqnc, de mulatto, et de p6ril do mort. les nobles se repentirent de possgder des serfs, comtne d'unc chose pen agreablc a Dien, qui avaii cre"e" tons les hommes a son image.

THIEEEr: ConQUETE DE L'angleteeee.

In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Lond, withont, 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-nostcr,
From the missal on his knee:

And, amid the tempest pealing.
Sonnds of bells came faintly stealing,
Bells, that, from the neighbonring klostcr.
Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal

Held, that night, their Christinas wassail;

Many a carol, old and saintly,

Sang the miustrels and the whits.

And so lond these Saxon glecmen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen.
That the storm was heard bnt faintly
Knocking at the castle-gates.


Till at length the lays they chaunted

Reached the chamber terror-haunted,

Where the monk, with aecents holy,

Whispered at the baron's ear.

Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
As ho 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 showed the sainted
Flgures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shnddering baron,
"Miserere, Domine!"

In that honr of deep contrition,
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all ontward show and fashion
Justice, the Avenger, rise.

All the pomp of earth had vanished.
Falsehood and deceit were banished,
Reason spake more lond than passion,
And the trnth wore no disguise.

Every vassal of his bauner.
Every serf born to his manor,
All those wronged and wretched creatures
By his hand were freed again.

And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,
And the monk replied " Amen!"

Many centuries have been numbered
Wince in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal,
Mingling with the common dust:

Bnt the good deed, throngh the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Uncousumed by moth or rust.


How beantiful is the rain I
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane.
How beantiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,

Like the tramp of hoofs!

How it gushes and struggles ont

From the throat of the overflowing spont 1

Across the window-pane

It ponrs and ponrs;

And swift and wide

With a mnddy tide,

Like a river down the gntter roars

The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks

At the twisted brooks;

He can feel the cool

Breath of each little pool;

His fevered brain

Grows caim again.

And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

Frem the neighbonring school

Come the boys,

With more than their wonted noise

And commotion;

And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets,

Till the treachernus pool

Engulfs them in its whirling

And turbulent ocean.


Deae child ! how radiant on thy mother's kuee,

With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles.

Thon gazest at the painted tiles, •

Whose figures grace.

With many a grotesqne form and face.

The ancient chiumey of thy nursery!

The lady with the gay macaw.

The dancing-girl, the great bashaw

With bearded lip and chin;

And, loaning idly o'er his gate,

Beneath the imperial fan of state.

The Chinese mandarin.

Wth what a look of prond command
Thoa shakest in thy little hand
Th' coral rattle with its silver bells,
Maiing; a merry tune!
Thoisands of years in Indian seas
Thai corai grew, by slow degrees,
Unti. some deadly and wild monsoou
Dashed it on Coromandel's sand!
Those silver bells
Reposed of yore
As shapeless ore,
Far down in the deep-sunken wells
Of darksome mines.
In some obscure and suuless place,
Beneath huge Chhuborazo's base,
Or Potosi's o'erhanging pines I

And thus for thee, O little child.

Throngh many a danger and escape.

The tall ships passed the stormy cape;

For thee in foreign lands remote,

Beneath the burning, tropic skits.

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat,

Himself as swift and wild,

In falling, clntched the frail arbntc,

The fibres of whose shallow root,

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed

The silver veius beneath it laid.

The buried treasures of dead centuries.

Bnt, lo! thy door is left ajar!

Thon liearest footsteps from afar!

And, at the sonnd.

Thon tamest ronnd

With quick and qnestioning eyes,

Like one, who, hi a foreigu land,

Beholds on every hand

Some sonree of wonder and surprise!

And, restlessly, impatiently,

Thon strivest, strugglest to be free.

The fonr walls of thy nursery

Are now like prison walls to thee.

No more thy mother's smiles,

No more the painted tiles.

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor,

That won thy little, beatingheart before;

Thon struggles! for the open door.

Throngh these once solitary halls

Thv pattering footstep falls.

The sonnd of thy merry voice

Makes the old walls

Jubilant, and they rejoice

With the jey of thy yonng heart,

O'er the light of whose gladuess

No shadows of saduess

From the sombre backgronnd of memory start.

Once, ah, once, within these walls.
One whom memory oft recalls.
The Father of his Conntry, dwelt.
And yonder meadows broad and damp
The fires of the besieging camp
Encireled with a burning belt.
Up and down these echong stairs,
Heavy with the weight of cares,
Sonnded his majestic trend;
Yes, within this very room
Sat he in those honrs of gloom,
Weary both in heart and head.

Bnt what are these grave thonghts to thee?

Ont, ont! into the open air!

Thy ouly dream is liberty,

Thon carest little how or where.

I see thee eager at thy play.

Now shonting to the apples on the tree,

With cheeks as ronnd and red as they;

And now among the yellow stalks.

Among the flowering shrubs and plants,

As restless as the bee.

Along the garden walks.

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace;

And see at every turn how they efface

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents,

That rise like golden domes

Above the cavernous and secret homes

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants.

Ah. crnel little Tamerlane.

Who, with thy dreadful reigu,

Dost persecnte and overwheim

These hapless Troglodytes of thy reaim!

What! tired aiready! with those suppliant

And voice more beantiful than a poet's books.
Or umrumring sonnd of water as it flows.
Thon comest back t« parley with repose;
Tliis rustic scat in the old apple-tree,
With its o'erhanging golden canopy
Of leaves Illuminate with antuumal hues,
And shining with the argent light of dews,
Shall for a season be onr place of rest.
Beneath us. like an oriole's pendant nest,
From which the laughing birds have takeu

By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing.
Dream-like the waters of the river gleam;
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream,
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep.
Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep.

O Child! O new-born denizen
Of life's great city! on thy head
The glory of the morn is shed,
Like a celestial benizon!

Here at the portal thon dost stand.
And with thy little hand
Thon openest the mysterions gate
Into the fnture's undiscovered land.

1 see its valves expand.
As at the tonch of Fate!

Into those reaims of love and hate,

Into that darkness blank and drear,

By some prophetic feeling taught,

I launched the bold, adventurons thonght,

Freighted with hope and fear;

As upon subterranean streams.

In caverus unexplored and dark,

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark,

Laden with flickering fire.

And watch its swift-receding beams.

Until at length they disappear,

And in the distant dark expire.

By what astrology of fonv or hope

Dare I to cast thy horoscope!

Like the new moon thy life appears;

A little strip of silver light.

And widening ontward into night

The shadowy disk of fnture years,

And yet upon its onter rim,

A luminons cirele, faint and dim,

And scareely visible to us here,

Ronnds and completes the perfeet sphere;

A propheey and intimation,

A pale and feeble adumbration,

Of the great world of light, that lies

Behind all human destinies.

Ah! if thy fate, with anguish fraught,
Shonld be to wet the dusty soil
With the hot tears and sweat of toil,—
To struggle with Imperions thonght,
Until the overburdened brain.
Weary with labonr, faint with pain,
Like a jarred pendulum, retain
Ouly its motion, not its power,—
Remember, in that perilons honr.
When most afflieted and oppressed,
From labonr there shall come forth rest.

And if a more auspicions fate
On thv advancing steps await,
Still let it ever be thy pride •

To linger by the labonrer's side;
With words of sympathy or song
To cheer the dreary mareh along
Of the great army of the poor,
O'er desert sand, o'er dangerons moor

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Nor to thyself the task shall be

Withont reward; for thon shalt learn

The wisdom early to discern

Trne beanty in ntility;

As great Pythagoras of yore.

Standing beside the blacksmith's door.

And hearing the hammers, as they smote

The anvils with a different note,

Stole from the varying tones, that hung

Vibrant on every iron tongne.

The secret of the sonnding wire,

And formed the seven-corded lyre.

Enongh! I will not play the Seer;
I will not longer strive to ope
The mystic volume, where appear
The herald Hope, foreruuning Fear,
And fear, the pursuivant of Hope.
Thy destiny remaius untold;
For, like Acestes' shaft of old.
The swift thonght kindles as it flies,
And burus to ashes in the skies.


I Saw, as in a dream sublime.

The balance in the hand of Time.

O'er East and West its beam impended;

And day, with all its honrs of light,

Was slowly sinking ont of sight.

While, opposite, the scale of night

Silently with the stars ascended.

Like the astrologers of eld,

In that bright vision I beheld

Greater and deeper mysteries.

I saw, with its celestial keys,

Its chords of air. its frets o'f fire,

The Samian's great JEolian lyre,

Rising throngh all its sevenfold bars.

From earth unto the fixed stars.

And throngh the dewy atmosphere,

Not ouly conld I see, bnt hear,

Its wondrons and harmonions strings,

In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere,

From Dlan's cirele light and near,

Onward to vaster and wider rings,

Where, chaunting throngh his beard of suows,

Majestie, monrnful, Saturn goes,

And down the suuless reaims of space

Reverberates the thunder of his bass.

Beneath the sky's trinmphal areh
The umsic sonnded like a mareh.
And with its chorus seemed to be
Prelnding some great tragedy.

Sirins was rising in the east;
And, slow ascending one by one,
The kindling coustellatious shone.
Begirt with many a blazing star,
Stood the great giant Algebar,
Orion, hunter of the beast!
His sword hung gleaming by his sido.
And, on his arm, the lion's hide
Scattered across the miduight air
The golden radiance of its hair.

The moon was pallid, bnt not faint;
And beantiful as some fair saint,
Serenely moving on her way
In honrs of trial and dismay.
As if she heard the voice of God
Unharmed with naked feet she trod
Upon the hot and burning stars,
As on the glowing coals and bars
That were to prove her strength, and try
Her holiness and her purity.

Thus moving on, with silent pace.
And trinmph in her sweet pale face,
She reached the station of Orion.
Aghast he stood in strange alarm!
And snddeuly from his ontstretched arm
Down fell the red skin of the lion

Into the river at his feet.

His mighty club no longer beat

The forehead of the bull; bnt he

Reeled as of yore beside the sea,

When, blinded by GSnopion,

He songht the blacksmith at his forge,

And, climbing up the monntain gorge,

Flxed his blank eyes upon the sun.

Then throngh the silence overhead,
An angel with a trumpet said,
"Forevermore, forevermore.
The reigu of violence is o'er!"
And, like an iustrument that flings
Its umsic on another's strings,
The trumpet of the angel case
Upon the heaveuly lyre its blast.
And on sphere to sphere the words
Reechoed down the burning chords,—
"Forevermore. forevermore,
The reigu of violence is o'er!"


I Stood on the bridge at miduight.
As the clocks were striking the honr,

And the moon rose o'er the city.
Behind the dark-chureh tower.

I saw her bright reflexion

In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace

Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay. And the current that came from the ocean,

Seemed to lift and bear them away.

As, sweeping and eddying throngh them

Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the mooulight,

The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thonghts came o er me

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often,

In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on the bridge at miduight

And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, ob, how often
1 had wished that the ebbing tide

Wonld bear me away on its bosom
O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,

And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I conld bear.

Bnt now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea!
And ouly the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odonr of brine from the ocean Comes the thonght of other years.

And I thihk how many thonsands

Of care-eneumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow.

Have crossed the bridge since then.

1 see the long procession

Still passing to and fro.
The yonng heart hot and restless,

And the old subdned and slow \

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