NUREMBERG. Banished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 195 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 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, Loud, without, the tempest thundered, 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, Many a prayer and pater-noster, From the missal on his knee; And, amid the tempest pealing, Bells, that, from the neighbouring cloister, THE NORMAN BARON. 197 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 Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, Till at length the lays they chaunted Tears upon his eyelids glistened, Turned his weary head to hear. "Wassail for the kingly stranger And the lightning showed the sainted And exclaimed the shuddering baron, In that hour of deep contrition, He beheld, with clearer vision, 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!" Many centuries have been numbered But the good deed, through the ages Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust. RAIN IN SUMMER. How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs! How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain! The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighbouring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise |