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 nobility of labor,-the long pedigree 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: CONQUÊTE DE L'Angleterre. N his chamber, weak and dying, IN his chamber, weak and vine, Ι Was the Norman baron lying; Loud, without, the tempest thundered, And the castle-turret shook. In this fight was Death the gainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, By his bed a monk was seated, Who in humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater-noster, And, amid the tempest pealing, 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, That the storm was heard but faintly, Till at length the lays they chanted ; 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!" Many centuries have been numbered Mingling with the common dust: But the good deed, through the ages H RAIN IN SUMMER OW beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, 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 neighboring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Engulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean. In the country, on every side, Where far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, |