he does not render adequately; grace and sentiment he appreciates and reproduces. Twenty years hence, when he stands upon his own merits, he will rank as a writer of elegant, if not always accurate taste, of great imitative power, and occasional felicity in an original way, where his feelings are really stirred. He has touched no subject where he has not done somewhat that is pleasing, though also his poems are much marred by ambitious failings. As instances of his best manner we would mention “The Reaper and the Flowers,” “Lines to the Planet Mars,” “A Gleam of Sunshine,” and “The Village Blacksmith.” His two ballads are excellent imitations, yet in them is no spark of fire. In “Nuremberg” are charming passages. Indeed, the whole poem is one of the happiest specimens of Mr. L.’s poetic feeling, taste and tact in making up a rosary of topics and images. Thinking it may be less known than most of the poems we will quote it. The engraving which accompanies it of the rich old architecture is a fine gloss on its contents.
| 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, |
| 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 Cunigunda’s hand. |
| On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days, |
| Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise. |
| Every where 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; |
