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In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad

meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nurem

berg, 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 tlie 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 Maxi

milian'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 own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps en

shrined 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 laboured Albrecht Dürer, the

Evangelist 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 sun

shine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he

once has breathed its air !

Through these streets so broad and stately,

these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Master-Singers, 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 to

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.

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