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    Nuremberg

    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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    In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands
    Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient,
    stands.

    Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and
    song,
    Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them
    throng:

    Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,
    Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

    And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth
    rhyme,
    That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every
    clime.

    In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron hand,
    Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;

    On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days
    Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.

    Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art:
    Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common
    mart;

    And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,
    By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

    In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,
    And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their
    trust;

    In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,
    Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted
    air.

    Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,
    Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art;

    Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,
    Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

    Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies;
    Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies.

    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 Mastersingers, 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,
    And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime;

    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,
    Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and
    laughed.

    But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor,
    And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;

    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,
    Quaffing ale from pewter tankard; in the master's antique chair.

    Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye
    Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

    Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's
    regard;
    But thy painter, Albrecht Durer, 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.
    If you're writing a Nuremberg essay and need some advice, post your Henry Wadsworth Longfellow essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

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