Poems on Travel Part 11

On, on the vessel steals; Round go the paddle wheels, And now the tourist feels As he should; 40 For king-like rolls the Rhine, And the scenery's divine, And the victuals and the wine Rather good.

From every crag we pa.s.s 'll 45 Rise up some h.o.a.r old castle; The hanging fir-groves ta.s.sel Every slope; And the vine her lithe arm stretches O'er peasants singing catches-- 50 And you'll make no end of sketches, I should hope.

We've a nun here (called Therese), Two couriers out of place, One Yankee with a face 55 Like a ferret's: And three youths in scarlet caps Drinking chocolate and schnapps-- A diet which perhaps Has its merits. 60

And day again declines: In shadow sleep the vines, And the last ray through the pines Feebly glows, Then sinks behind yon ridge; 65 And the usual evening midge Is settling on the bridge Of my nose.

And keen's the air and cold, And the sheep are in the fold, 70 And Night walks sable-stoled Through the trees; And on the silent river The floating starbeams quiver;-- And now, the saints deliver 75 Us from fleas.

Avenues of broad white houses, Basking in the noontide glare;-- Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from, As on hot plates shrinks the bear;-- 80

Elsewhere lawns, and vistaed gardens, Statues white, and cool arcades, Where at eve the German warrior Winks upon the German maids;--

Such is Munich:--broad and stately, 85 Rich of hue, and fair of form; But, towards the end of August, Unequivocally _warm_.

C. S. CALVERLEY.

NUREMBERG

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, 5 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 band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand; 10

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, 15 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. 20

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and laboured 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; 25 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 Master-singers, chanting rude poetic strains. 30

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 G.o.d, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 36

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; 40

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, As the old man grey 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 tankards, in the master's antique chair.

Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 45 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, 51 The n.o.bility of labour,--the long pedigree of toil.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

AGED CITIES

I have known cities with the strong-armed Rhine Clasping their mouldered quays in lordly sweep; And lingered where the Maine's low waters shine Through Tyrian Frankfort; and been fain to weep 'Mid the green cliffs where pale Mosella laves 5 That Roman sepulchre, imperial Treves.

Ghent boasts her street, and Bruges her moonlight square; And holy Mechlin, Rome of Flanders, stands, Like a queen-mother, on her s.p.a.cious lands; And Antwerp shoots her glowing spire in air. 10 Yet have I seen no place, by inland brook, Hill-top, or plain, or trim arcaded bowers, That carries age so n.o.bly in its look, As Oxford with the sun upon her towers.

F. W. FABER.

BRUGES

The Spirit of Antiquity--enshrined In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, And with devout solemnities entwined-- Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind: 5 Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along, Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng, To an harmonious decency confined: As if the streets were consecrated ground, The city one vast temple, dedicate 10 To mutual respect in thought and deed; To leisure, to forbearances sedate; To social cares from jarring pa.s.sions freed; A deeper peace than that in deserts found!

W. WORDSWORTH.

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES

In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town.

As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. 4

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.