[I feel considerable hesitation in venturing to offer this version of a poem which Carlyle describes to be 'a beautiful piece (a very Hans Sacks beatified, both in character and style), which we wish there was any possibility of translating.' The reader will be aware that Hans Sachs was the celebrated Minstrel- Cobbler of Nuremberg, who Wrote 208 plays, 1700 comic tales, and between 4000 and 5000 lyric poems. He flourished throughout almost the whole of the 16th century.] EARLY within his workshop here, On Sundays stands our master dear; His dirty apron he puts away, And wears a cleanly doublet to-day; Lets wax'd thread, hammer, and pincers rest, And lays his awl within his chest; The seventh day he takes repose From many pulls and many blows. Soon as the spring-sun meets his view, Repose begets him labour anew; He feels that he holds within his brain A little world, that broods there amain, And that begins to act and to live, Which he to others would gladly give. He had a skilful eye and true, And was full kind and loving too. For contemplation, clear and pure,-- For making all his own again, sure; He had a tongue that charm'd when 'twas heard, And graceful and light flow'd ev'ry word; Which made the Muses in him rejoice, The Master-singer of their choice. And now a maiden enter'd there, With swelling breast, and body fair; With footing firm she took her place, And moved with stately, noble grace; She did not walk in wanton mood, Nor look around with glances lewd. She held a measure in her hand, Her girdle was a golden band, A wreath of corn was on her head, Her eye the day's bright lustre shed; Her name is honest Industry, Else, Justice, Magnanimity. She enter'd with a kindly greeting; He felt no wonder at the meeting, For, kind and fair as she might be, He long had known her, fancied he.