 | Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr |  |
462
NUREMBERG
Over the wide, tumultuous sea
In trancèd hours I dream of thee,
Ancient city of song and myth,
Whose name is a name to conjure with,
And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!
In trancèd hours I dream of thee,
Ancient city of song and myth,
Whose name is a name to conjure with,
And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!
I see thee fair in the white moonlight;
The stars are asleep at noon of night,
Save one that between St. Lawrence' spires
Kindles aloft its silver fires—
A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!
The stars are asleep at noon of night,
Save one that between St. Lawrence' spires
Kindles aloft its silver fires—
A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!
Leaning over thy river's brim
Crowd the red roofs and oriels dim,
While under its bridges glide and gleam
The rippling waves of a silent stream,
Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!
Crowd the red roofs and oriels dim,
While under its bridges glide and gleam
The rippling waves of a silent stream,
Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!
Oh, the charm of each haunted street,
Ways where Beauty and Duty meet;
Sculptured miracles soaring free
In temple and mart for all to see,
Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!
Ways where Beauty and Duty meet;
Sculptured miracles soaring free
In temple and mart for all to see,
Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!
Even thy beggars lift their eyes,
Finding ever some new surprise;
Even thy children pause from play,
To hear what thy graven marbles say,
Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!
Finding ever some new surprise;
Even thy children pause from play,
To hear what thy graven marbles say,
Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!
463
Other cities for crown and king
Wide their glorious banners fling,
Lifting high on the azure field
Blazoned trophies of sword and shield,
That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!
Wide their glorious banners fling,
Lifting high on the azure field
Blazoned trophies of sword and shield,
That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!
But thou, O city of old renown,
Thou dost painter and sculptor crown;
Thou dost give to the poet bays,
Immortelles for the deathless lays
Chanted for thee, fair Nuremberg!
Thou dost painter and sculptor crown;
Thou dost give to the poet bays,
Immortelles for the deathless lays
Chanted for thee, fair Nuremberg!
They are thy Lords of High Degree,
Marvels of art who wrought for thee,
Toiling on with tireless will
Till the wondrous hands in death were still.
Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg!
Marvels of art who wrought for thee,
Toiling on with tireless will
Till the wondrous hands in death were still.
Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg!
They were dust and ashes long ago;
Over their graves the sweet winds blow;
Yet they are alive whom men call dead—
This is thy spell, when all is said;
This is thy glory, Nuremberg!
Over their graves the sweet winds blow;
Yet they are alive whom men call dead—
This is thy spell, when all is said;
This is thy glory, Nuremberg!
| Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr | |