But his house is now an alehouse, 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 dovelike, 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 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 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.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

BINGEN ON THE RHINE

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed

away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land;

Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was

done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting

sun:

And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in

wars,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many

scars;

And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn de

cline,

And one had come from Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old

age;

For I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would,—but kept my father's

sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen,-calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast

eye,

For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another, not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in

her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning,— O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),— I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,-I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and
still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk,

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak,—

His eyes put on a dying look,―he sighed and ceased to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked
down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strown; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton [1808-1877]

"AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBANON"

As I came down from Lebanon,
Came winding, wandering slowly down
Through mountain-passes bleak and brown,
The cloudless day was well-night done.
The city, like an opal set

In emerald, showed each minaret
Afire with radiant beams of sun,
And glistened orange, fig, and lime,
Where song-birds made melodious chime,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
Like lava in the dying glow,
Through olive orchards far below
I saw the murmuring river run;
And 'neath the wall upon the sand
Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand,
With precious spices they had won,
Lay long and languidly in wait
Till they might pass the guarded gate,
As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
I saw strange men from lands afar,
In
mosque and square and gay bazar,
The Magi that the Moslem shun,
And grave Effendi from Stamboul,
Who sherbet sipped in corners cool;
And, from the balconies o'errun
With roses, gleamed the eyes of those
Who dwell in still seraglios,

As I came down from Lebanon.

As I came down from Lebanon,
The flaming flower of daytime died,
And Night, arrayed as is a bride
Of some great king, in garments spun

Of purple and the finest gold,
Outbloomed in glories manifold,
Until the moon, above the dun
And darkening desert, void of shade,
Shone like a keen Damascus blade,
As I came down from Lebanon.

Clinton Scollard [1860

CEYLON

I HEAR a whisper in the heated air

"Rest! Rest! give over care!"

Long level breakers on the golden beach

Murmur in silver speech

"Sleep in the palm-tree shadows on the shore—

Work, work no more!

Rest here and work no more."

Where half unburied cities of dead kings

Breed poisonous creeping things

I learn the poor mortality of man

Seek vainly for some plan

Know that great empires pass as I must pass

Like withered blades of grass—

Dead blades of Patna grass.

"Breathe-breathe the odorous sweetness that is ours,"

Cry Frangipani flowers.

"Forget! Forget! and know no more distress,

But languorous idleness:

Dream where dead leaves fall ever from green trees

To float on sapphire seas

Dream! and be one with these."

A. Hugh Fisher [18–

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm trees, an' the temple bells they

say:

"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"