In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadowlands 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 courtyard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 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 Dürer, 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. LONGFELLOW. Pirkheimer wrote to Ulrich, "Although I have been often tried by the death of those who were dear to me, I think I have never until now experienced such sorrow as the loss of our dearest and best Dürer has caused me. And truly not without cause; for, of all men who were not bound to me by ties of blood, I loved and esteemed him the most, on account of his countless merits and rare integrity. As I know, my dear Ulrich, that you share my sorrow, I do not hesitate to allow it free course in your presence, so that we may consecrate together a just tribute of tears to our dear friend. He has gone from us, our Albert! Let us weep, my dear Ulrich, over the inexorable fate, the miserable lot of man, and the unfeeling cruelty of death. A noble man is snatched away, whilst so many others, worthless and incapable men, enjoy unclouded happiness, and have their years prolonged beyond the ordinary term of man's life."