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,

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, wit

reverent heart,

Lived and labored Albrecht Dürer, th list of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling

busy hand,

Like an emigrant he wandered, seekin Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the to where he lies;

Dead he is not, but departed, for

never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the

seems more fair,

That he once has trod its pavement,

once has breathed its air!

ple,

nge

rith

the

ne

st

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

the loom.

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-po

the gentle craft,

Wisest of the Twelve Wise Mas folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an ale-house, sanded floor,

And a garland in the window, and h the door;

Painted by some humble artist, a Puschman's song,

As the old man gray and dove-like, w beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic com his cark and care,

Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in

ter's antique chair.

, laureate c

rs, in huge

ith a nice

face abore

in Adam

his great

drow

e mas

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

toil.

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