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time to tune the harp; and nought pitches the voice and sharpens the ear like a stoup of wine. For my part, I love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends before they make the harp-strings tinkle."

CHAPTER XVII.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Pourtray'd with many a holy deed
Of martyrs crown'd with heavenly meed;
Then, as my taper waxes dim,

Chaunt, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.

Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff and amice gray,
And to the world's tumultuous stage,
Prefer the peaceful HERMITAGE.

WARTON.

NOTWITHSTANDING the prescription of the genial hermit, with which his guest willingly complied, he found it no easy matter to bring the harp to harmony.

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Methinks, holy father," said he, "the instrument wants one string, and the rest have been somewhat misused."

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Ay, mark'st thou that?" replied the hermit; "that shews thee a master of the craft. Wine and wassail," he added, gravely casting up his eyes"all the fault of wine and wassail!-I told Allan

a-Dale, the northern minstrel, that he would damage the harp if he touched it after the seventh cup, but he would not be controlled-Friend, I drink to thy successful performance."

So saying, he took off his cup with much gravity, at the same time shaking his head at the intemperance of the northern minstrel.

The knight, in the meantime, had brought the strings into some order, and after a short prelude, asked his host whether he would choose a sirvente in the language of oc, or a lai in the language of oui, or a virelai, or a ballad in the vulgar English.

"A ballad, a ballad," said the hermit, " against all the ocs and ouis of France. Downright English am I, Sir Knight, and downright English was my patron St Dunstan, and scorned oc and oui, as he would have scorned the parings of the devil's hoof downright English alone shall be sung in this cell."

"I will assay then," said the knight, “ a ballad composed by a Saxon glee-man, whom I knew in Holy Land."

It speedily appeared, that if the knight was not a complete master of the minstrel art, his taste for it had at least been cultivated under the best instructors. Art had taught him to soften the faults of a voice which had little compass, and was naturally rough, rather than mellow, and, in short, had done all that art can do in supplying natural

deficiencies. His performance, therefore, might have been termed very respectable by abler judges than the hermit, especially as the knight threw into the notes now a degree of spirit, and now of plaintive enthusiasm, which gave force and energy to the verses which he sung.

THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.

1.

High deeds achieved of knightly fame,
From Palestine the champion came;
The cross upon his shoulders borne,
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.
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 :—

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2.

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's smile!

3.

"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 Ascalon!

4.

"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.

See'st thou her locks, whose sunny glow
Half shews, half shades her neck of snow?
Twines not of them one golden thread,
But for its sake a Paynim bled.'

5.

"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

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