3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought
Of hardy champions knowen to the flood,
How on the banks thereof brave Aelle fought,
Aelle descended from Merce kingly blood,
Warder of Bristol town and castle stede,
Who ever and anon made Danes to bleed.
4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite
Dight in the armour brace that Michael bore,
When he with Satan, king of Hell, did fight,
And earth was drenched in a sea of gore;
Or, soon as they did see the worlde's light,
Fate had wrote down, 'This man is born to fight.'
5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say,
Why is thy actions left so spare in story?
Were I to dispone, there should liven aye,
In earth and heaven's rolls thy tale of glory;
Thy acts so doughty should for aye abide,
And by their test all after acts be tried.
6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind,
As fair a saint as any town can boast,
Or be the earth with light or mirk ywrynde,[4]
I see his image walking through the coast:
Fitz-Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twenty moe,
In vision 'fore my fantasy did go.
7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed,
And each digne[6] builder dequaced on my mind,
When from the distant stream arose a maid,
Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind;
Like to the silver moon in frosty night,
The damoiselle did come so blithe and sweet.
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