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, In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, 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 tombstone where he lies; Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine 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 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, 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, 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 charming touch in the last stanza has a pathos peculiar to Professor Longfellow. The next poem is also one which, if printed anonymously, we should, I think, be ready to assign to the right author THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: Toujours-jamais ! Jamais toujours!-JAQUES BRIDAINE. Somewhat back from the village street Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass: "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, It calmly repeats those words of awe: "Forever-never! Never-forever!" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning time-piece never ceased: "Forever-never! Never-forever!" There groups of merry children played; And affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold Those hours the ancient time-piece told: "Forever-never! Never-forever!" From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding-night! There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in its shroud of snow! And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair: "Forever-never! Never-forever!" All are scattered now and fled, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain and care, Sayeth this incessantly: "6 Forever-never! Never-forever!" TWILIGHT. The twilight is sad and cloudy, But in the fisherman's cottage Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness, To see some form arise. And a woman's waving shadow Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean, And why do the roaring ocean And the night-wind wild and bleak, RESIGNATION. There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, The air is full of farewells to the dying The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Let us be patient! These severe afflictions But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors Amid these earthly damps, What seem to us but sad funereal tapers, May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, the child of our affection, But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, Day after day, we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; |