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From the strong Will, and the Endeavor

That forever

Wrestle with the tides of Fate;

1844.

NUREMBERG1

1845.

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, timedefying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,

That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.2

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,

Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;"

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1 This poem is typical of the impressions which Longfellow received from travel in Europe, as expressed in the Belfry of Bruges volume and elsewhere. The prose material of the poem is to be found in a letter of September 24, 1842, to the German poet Freiligrath :

Without any doubt, I am in the ancient city of Nürnberg. I arrived last night at ten o'clock, and took my first view by moonlight, strolling alone through the broad, silent streets, and listening to the musical bells that ever and anon gave a hint that it was bedtime.

'To-day has been a busy, exciting day. I have seen the best works of Albrecht Dürer, Peter Vischer, and other worthies of Nürnberg. I have seen Dürer's house and his grave; also those of Hans Sachs. The old shoemaker's house is now an ale-house. His portrait is on the sign of the door, with this inscription: 'Gasthaus zum Hans Sachs.'

An old popular proverb of the town runs thus:

1 Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his Teuerdank was the reigning Emperor, Maximilian; and the poem was to the Germans of that day what the Orlando Furioso was to the Italians. (LONGFELLOW.)

2 The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who labored upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve Apostles are conspicuous for size and beauty. (LONGFELLOW.)

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is by the hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair.

piece of sculpture in white stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. It stands in the choir, whose richly painted windows cover it with varied colors. (LONGFELLOW.)

The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original corporation of the Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, was the most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well as the most voluminous. He flourished in the sixteenth century; and left behind him thirtyfour folio volumes of manuscript, containing two hundred and eight plays, one thousand and seven hundred comic tales, and between four and five thousand lyric poems. (LONGFELLOW.)

5 Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, describes him as he appeared in a vision:

Then, with deep sonorous clangor
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbers
Still I heard those magic numbers,
As they loud proclaimed the flight
And stolen marches of the night;
Till their chimes in sweet collision
Mingled with each wandering vision,

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Mingled with the fortune-telling
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
Which amid the waste expanses
Of the silent land of trances
Have their solitary dwelling;
All else seemed asleep in Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimes
Are the poet's airy rhymes,
All his rhymes and roundelays,
His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
From the belfry of his brain,
Scattered downward, though in vain,
On the roofs and stones of cities!
For by night the drowsy ear
Under its curtains cannot hear,
And by day men go
their ways,
Hearing the music as they pass,
But deeming it no more, alas!
Than the hollow sound of brass.
Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn
In the narrow lanes of life,
When the dusk and hush of night
Shut out the incessant din
Of daylight and its toil and strife,
May listen with a calm delight
To the poet's melodies,

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Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song,
Thoughts that he has cherished long;
Hears amid the chime and singing
The bells of his own village ringing,
And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes
Wet with most delicious tears.

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé,

Listening with a wild delight

To the chimes that, through the night, Rang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city.

1845.

DANTE

60

1845.1

TUSCAN, that wanderest through the realms of gloom,

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes,

1 The Belfry of Bruges volume bears the date 1846, and is listed as of that year in the bibliographies of Longfellow and in at least two books on the first editions of American authors; but it was actually published on December 23, 1845.

Called 'The Bridge over the Charles,' in Longfellow's Journal, Oct. 9, 1845. In an earlier passage of his Journal, March 15, 1838, he speaks of his delight in walking to and from Boston, and says: 'I always stop on the bridge; tide-waters are beautiful. From the ocean up into the land they go, like messengers, to ask why the tribute has not been paid. The brooks and rivers answer that there has been little harvest of snow and rain this year.' Life, vol. i, p. 289.

2 An excellent example of the 'literary' character of Longfellow's inspiration. This is evidently a reminiscence of the German ballads, not of anything seen or conceived by the poet himself.

As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh how often,

In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, oh how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.

1845.

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60 1845.

1 Longfellow wrote in his Journal under the date of November 12, 1845: Began a poem on a clock, with the words Forever, never," as the burden; suggested by the words of Bridaine, the old French missionary, who said of eternity, C'est une pendule dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux, Toujours, jamais! Jamais, toujours! Et pendant ces effrayables révolutions, un réprouvé s'écrie,"Quelle heure est-il ?" et la voix d'un autre misérable lui répond, "L'Eternité."

The old-fashioned country-seat,' where the clock stood, is in Pittsfield, Mass. Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow visited it on their wedding journey in 1843. (Life, vol. ii, pp. 2, 24, 25.) The house belonged to relatives of Mrs. Longfellow, and when it was sold in 1853, the 'old clock was alone reserved by the family. (Life, vol. ii, p. 259.)