NUREMBERG. In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands 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 emperors, rough and bold, And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,3 In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,4 Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies; Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, 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, As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, 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, But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song,6 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, Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; NUREMBERG. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, 303 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, NOTES. (1.) That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. An old popular proverb of the town runs thus: Nürnberg's Hand Geht durch alle Land." "Nuremburg's hand Goes through every land." (2.) Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his Teuerdank was the reigning emperor, Maximilian; and the poem was to the Germans of that day what the Orlando Furioso was to the Italians. Maximilian is mentioned before, in the Belfry of Bruges. See page 291. (3.) In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust. The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who laboured upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. (4.) In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare. This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculpture in white stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly-painted windows cover it with varied colours. (5.) Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters. The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of the Master singers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well as the most voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth century; and left behind him thirty-four folio volumes of manuscript, containing two hundred and eight plays, one thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and between four and five thousand lyric poems. (6.) As in Adam Puschman's song. Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he appeared in a vision:- "An old man, Gray and white, and dove-like, Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 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 agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes à son image.-THIERRY, Conquête de l'Angleterre. THE NORMAN BARON. Loud, without, the tempest thundered, In this fight was Death the gainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, By his bed a monk was seated, From the missal on his knee; And, amid the tempest pealing, 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. And so loud these Saxon gleemen Till at length the lays they chaunted Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 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!" 305 |