From his parchment’s musty fold;
He is skilled to look in many a book
Writ by hands that have long been cold.
But his thin white hand never grasped a brand,
Nor ever made lance-shaft flee,
And pale is his cheek, and his arm is weak—
What profit, what profit is he?
“The Minstrel he roams from land to land
In his flaunting robe so gay,
And light o’er the strings his soft hand he flings