[SPAM] MATHER. Then tell me, Witch and woman, For you must know t

Guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows
build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; Thanking
God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the
forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here Hans Sachs,
the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve
Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an
ale-house, 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 dove-like, with his great beard
white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark
and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankard; 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 Durer, 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 pa

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