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 ih 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 countryman had herded long enough with the