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The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched
asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, О man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly
voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies;
Were half the power that fills the world with
terror, Where half the wealth, bestowed on camps
and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals nor forts :
The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain !
valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands he blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.
it old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and
song, ories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng :
Down the dark future, through long genera
tions, 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,
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.