Each dint upon his batter’d shield Was token of a foughten field; And thus, beneath his lady’s bower, He sung, as fell the twilight hour:— Joy to the fair!—thy knight behold, Return’d from yonder land of gold. No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need Save his good arms and battle-steed, His spurs, to dash against a foe, His lance and sword to lay him low; Such all the trophies of his toil, Such—and the hope of Tekla’sce smile! Joy to the fair! whose constant knight, Her favour fired to feats of might; Unnoted shall she not remain, Where meet the bright and noble train; Minstrel shall sing and herald tell— “Mark yonder maid of beauty well, ’Tis she for whose bright eyes was won The listed field at Askalon! ‘“Note well her smile! it edged the blade Which fifty wives to widows made, When, vain his strength and Mahound’s spell, Iconium’s turban’d soldan fell.3 Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow? Twines not of them one golden thread, But for its sake a Paynim bled. ” Joy to the fair!—my name unknown, Each deed and all its praise thine own; Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate, The night dew falls, the hour is late. Inured to Syria’s glowing breath, I feel the north breeze chill as death; Let grateful love quell maiden shame, And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.’ During this performance, the hermit demeaned himself much like a first-rate critic of the present day at a new opera. He reclined back upon his seat with his eyes half shut: now folding his hands and twisting his thumbs, he seemed absorbed in attention, and anon, balancing his expanded palms, he gently flourished them in time to the music. At one or two favourite cadences he threw in a little assistance of his own, where the knight’s voice seemed unable to carry the air so high as his worshipful taste approved. When the song was ended, the anchorite emphatically declared it a good one, and well sung.
“And yet,” said he, “I think my Saxon countrymen had herded long enough with the Normans to fall into the tone of their melancholy ditties. What took the honest knight from home? or what could he expect but to find his mistress agreeably engaged with a rival on his return, and his serenade, as they call it, as little regarded as the caterwauling of a cat in the gutter? Nevertheless, Sir Knight, I drink this cup to thee, to the success of all true lovers. I fear you are none,” he added, on observing that the knight, whose brain began to be heated with these repeated draughts, qualified his flagon from the water pitcher.
“Why,” said the knight, “did you not tell me that this water was from the well of your blessed patron, St. Dunstan?”
“Ay, truly,” said the hermit, “and many a hundred of pagans did he baptize there, but I never heard that he drank any of it. Everything should be put to its proper use in this world. St. Dunstan knew, as well as any one, the prerogatives of a jovial friar.”
And so saying, he reached the harp, and entertained his guest with the following characteristic song, to a sort of derry-down chorus,4 appropriate to an old English ditty:
THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR
I’ll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain, To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain; But ne’er shall you find, should you search till you tire, So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. Your knight for his lady pricks, forth in career, And is brought home at evensong prick’d through with a spear; I confess him in haste—for his lady desires No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar’s. Your monarch! Pshaw! many a prince has been known To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown; But which of us e’er felt the idle desire To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar! The Friar has walk’d out, and where’er he has gone, The land and its fatness is mark’d for his own; He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
