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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
?
"
