When asked about the author of the song, the man gave no distinct reply; declaring only that he was rich in songs, and anxious that they should please. Most of the party were now merry and joyful; even Melina was grown frank in his way; and, whilst they talked and joked together, the old man began to sing the praise of social life in the most sprightly style. He described the loveliness of unity and courtesy, in soft, soothing tones. Suddenly his music became cold, harsh, and jarring, as he turned to deplore repulsive selfishness, short-sighted enmity, and baleful division; and every heart willingly threw off those galling fetters, while, borne on the wings of a piercing melody, he launched forth in praise of peacemakers, and sang the happiness of souls, that, having parted, meet again in love. Scarcely had he ended, when Wilhelm cried to him, "Whoever thou art, that as a helping spirit comest to us with a voice which blesses and revives, accept my reverence and my thanks! Feel that we all admire thee, and confide in us if thou wantest any thing." The old man spoke not: he threw his fingers softly across the strings, then struck more sharply, and sang,-- "'What notes are those without the wall, Across the portal sounding? Let's have the music in our hall, Back from its roof rebounding.' So spoke the king, the henchman flies: His answer heard, the monarch cries, 'Bring in that ancient minstrel.' 'Hail, gracious king! each noble knight, Each lovely dame, I greet you! What glittering stars salute my sight! What heart unmoved may meet you! Such lordly pomp is not for me, Far other scenes my eyes must see: Yet deign to list my harping.' The singer turns him to his art, A thrilling strain he raises: Each warrior hears with glowing heart, And on his loved one gazes. The king, who liked his playing well, Commands, for such a kindly spell, A golden chain be given him. 'The golden chain give not to me; Thy boldest knight may wear it, Who, 'cross the battle's purple sea, On lion breast may bear it: Or let it be thy chancellor's prize, Amid his heaps to feast his eyes; Its yellow glance will please him.' 'I sing but as the linnet sings, That on the green bough dwelleth; A rich reward his music brings, As from his throat it swelleth: Yet might I ask, I'd ask of thine One sparkling draught of purest wine, To drink it here before you.' He viewed the wine: he quaffed it up. 'O draught of sweetest savor! O happy house, where such a cup Is thought a little favor! If well you fare, remember me, And thank kind Heaven, from envy free, As now for this I thank you.'"