Imágenes de páginas

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 Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of

the loom.

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, And a garland in the window, and his face above

the door ;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam

Puschman's song, As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great

beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown

his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the mas

ter's antique chair.

Vanished is the ancient splendor, 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.

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 labor, — the long pedigree of



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 posséder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agré. able à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes à son image.


In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying ;
Loud, without, 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-noster,

From the missal on his knee;

And, amid the tempest pealing,
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,
Bells, that, from the neighbouring kloster,

Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal
Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ;
Many a carol, old and saintly,

Sang the minstrels and the waits.

« AnteriorContinuar »