'Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell,
That on the hour when I was born,
Saint George, who graced my sire's chapelle, 555
Down from his steed of marble fell,
A weary wight forlorn?
The flattering chaplains all agree,
The champion left his steed to me.
I would, the omen's truth to show, 560
That I could meet this Elfin Foe!
Blithe would I battle, for the right
To ask one question at the sprite:-
Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,
An empty race, by fount or sea, 565
To dashing waters dance and sing,
Or round the green oak wheel their ring.'
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.