the bright and noble train; Minstrel shall sing and herald tell— ‘Mark yonder maid of beauty well, ’Tis she for whose bright eyes were 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 sultan fell. 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