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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,

6 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.


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 em

perors, 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

Cunigunde's hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old

heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximil

ian's praise.

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


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.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple,

reverent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht Dürer, the Evange

list 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 !

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