| CHAPTER XVII At eve, within yon studious nook, I ope my brass-embossed book, Portray'd with many a holy deed Of martyrs crown'd with heavenly meed; Then, as my taper waxes dim, Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn. * * * * * Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff and amice grey, 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. |
| 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 culture 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:--- 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 were won The listed field at Askalon! 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. 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.' 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 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. Every thing 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, appropriate to an old English ditty.* * It may be proper to remind the reader, that the chorus of * "derry down" is supposed to be as ancient, not only as * the times of the Heptarchy, but as those of the Druids, * and to have furnished the chorus to the hymns of those * venerable persons when they went to the wood to gather * mistletoe. |
| THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR. 1. 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. 2. Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career, And is brought home at even-song prick'd through with a spear; I confess him in haste---for his lady desires No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's. 3. 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! 4. 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, For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's. 5. He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire, Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar. 6. He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot, They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot, And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire, Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar. 7. Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope, The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope; For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar, Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.
"By my troth," said the knight, "thou hast sung well and lustily,
and in high praise of thine order. And, talking of the devil, Holy
Clerk, are you not afraid that he may pay you a visit during some of
your uncanonical pastimes?" |
IVANHOE
by Sir Walter Scott
|
Chapters 1 * 2 * 3 * 4 * 5 * 6 * 7 * 8 * 9 * 10 * 11 * 12 * 13 * 14 * 15 * 16 * 17 * 18 * 19 * 20 * 21 * 22 * 23 * 24 * 25 * 26 * 27 * 28 * 29 * 30 * 31 * 32 * 33 * 34 * 35 * 36 * 37 * 38 * 39 * 40 * 41 * 42 * 43 * 44 |