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!
'Joyto 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.