XXI.
Elle's sprite
speaks.
Were I once more cast in a mortal frame,
To hear the chantry-song sound in mine ear,
To hear the masses to our holy dame,
To view the cross-aisles and the arches fair!
Through the half-hidden silver-twinkling glare
Of yon bright moon in foggy mantles dress'd,
I must content the building to aspere,
Whilst broken clouds the holy sight arrest;
Till, as the nights grow old, I fly the light.
Oh! were I man again, to see the sight!
[Sprite of Elle]
XXII.
There sit the canons; cloth of sable hue
Adorn the bodies of them every one;
The chanters white with scarfs of woaden blue,
And crimson chapeaux for them to put on,
With golden tassels, glittering in the sun;
The dames in kirtles all of Lincoln green,
And knotted shoe-peaks, of brave colours done.
A finer sight in sooth was never seen.
