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:

'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!

'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 of Ascalon !

"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 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.'

Chap. XVII.

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 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.

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, For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.

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.

made hot,

thane's castle :

fill the black pot;

And the goodwife would wish the

goodman in the mire,

bosom.

Barefooted Friar.

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 brier,

Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.

Chap. XVII.

NORMAN Saw on English oak,
On English neck a Norman yoke,
Norman spoon in English dish,
And England ruled as Normans wish;
Blithe world in England never will be

more,

Till England's rid of all the four.

Chap. XXVII.

ULRICA sings:—

WHET the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon!
Kindle the torch,
Daughter of Hengist !

The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,

It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed; | The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,

It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. Whet the steel, the raven croaks! Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling! Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon! Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!

The maidens of Valhalla look forth, The race of Hengist will send them guests.

Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!

And strike your loud timbrels for joy!

Many a haughty step bends to your halls,

Many a helmed head.

Dark sits the evening upon the thane's castle,

The black clouds gather round;
Soon shall they be red as the blood of
the valiant!

The destroyer of forests shall shake
his red crest against them;
He, the bright consumer of palaces,
Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide, and dusky,

Over the strife of the valiant;
His joy is in the clashing swords and
broken bucklers;

He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the wound!

All must perish!

The sword cleaveth the helmet ; The strong armour is pierced by the lance:

Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes, Engines break down the fences of the battle.

All must perish!

The race of Hengist is gone-
The name of Horsa is no more!
Shrink not then from your doom, sons
of the sword!

But present still, though now unseen! When brightly shines the prosperous day,

Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent
night,

Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

we prove,

Compared with these visions, O Tybalt!

my love?

Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,

Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill,

Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove,

But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, my love.

Chap. XL.