lime.

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 Duerer, 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 Duerer 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."

Pirkheimer died two years after Duerer's death, and was buried near
him. During his last days, and therefore so long after his friend's
decease that the first violence of his emot