Vanished is the ancient splendour, 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 Nuremburg, 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 labour,-the long pedegree of toil. THE NORMAN BARON. 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: CONQUETE DE L'ANGLETERRE. In his chamber, weak and dying, In this fight was Death the gainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, Written in the Doomsday Book. By his bed a monk was seated, And, amid the tempest pealing, In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night, their Christmas was sail; Many a carol, oid and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits. And so loud these Saxon gleemen Knocking at the castle-gates. D Till at length the lays they chanted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, Where the monk, with accents holy, Whispered at the baron's ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, Turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly stranger And the lightning showed the sainted In that hour of deep contrition, Through all outward show and fashion, All the pomp of earth had vanished, Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures, By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, "Amen!" |