Nygelle.

Sprites of the blest, the pious Nigel said,
Pour out your pleasure on my father's head.

I.

Richard of Lion's heart to fight is gone,
Upon the broad sea do the banners gleam;
The amenused nations are aston
To ken so large a fleet, so fine, so breme.
The barkes heads do cut the polished stream,
Waves sinking, waves upon the hard oak rise;
The water-slughorns, with a swotye cleme,
Strive with the dinning air, and reach the skies.
Sprites of the blest, on golden thrones a-stead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.

II.

The red y-painted oars from the black tide,
Carved with devices rare, do shimmering rise;
Upswelling do they shew in dreary pride,
Like gore-red estells in the eve-mirk skies;
The name-depicted shields, the spears arise,
Aye like tall rushes on the water-side;
Along from bark to bark the bright sheen flies;
Swift-sped delights do on the water glide.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.

III.

The Saracen looks out; he doith fear,
That England's furious sons do cut the way;
Like hunted bucks, they run now here, now there,
Unknowledging in what place to obaie.
The banner glisters in the beam of day,
The mighty cross-Jerusalem is seen,
Thereof the sight their courage doth affray,
In baleful dole their faces are y-wreen.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.

IV.

The bollengers and cottes, so swift in fight,
Upon the sides of every bark appear;
Forth to his office leapeth every knight,
Eftsoons his squiir, with his shield and spear.
The joining shields do shimmer and much glare,
The dashing oar doth make united din;
The running foemen, thinking if to dare,
Draw the dark sword, they seek the fray, they blin.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.

V.

Now come the warring Saracens to fight;
King Richard, like a lioncel of war,
In shining gold, like fiery gronfers, dight,
Shaketh aloft his hand, and seen afar.
So haveth I espied a greater star
Among the lesser ones to shine full bright;
So the sun's wain with aumayl'd beams doth bar
The pallid moon or estells to give light.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.

VI.

Distraught affray, with locks of blood-red dye,
Terror, emburled in the thunder's rage,
Death, linked to dismay, doth ugsom fly,
Enchafing every champion war to wage.
Spears bevyle spears, swords upon swords engage;
Armour on armour dins, shield upon shield,
Nor death of thousands can the war assuage;
But falling numbers darken all the field,
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.

VII.

The foemen fall around, the cross reels high;
Stained in gore, the heart of war is seen;
King Richard thorough every troop doth fly,
And beareth many Turks unto the green;
By him the flower of Asia's men are slain;
The waning moon doth fade before his sun:
By him his knights are formed to actions digne,
Doing such marvels, strangers are aston.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.

VIII.

The fight is won: King Richard master is,
The English banner kisseth the high air;
Full of pure joy the army is, y-wis,
And every one haveth it on his bayre.
Again to England come, and worshipped there,
Pulled into loving arms, and feasted eft;
In every eye a-reading naught of were,
Of all remembrance of past pain bereft.
Sprites of the past, and every saint y-dead,
Such pleasures pour upon my father's head.

IX.

So Nigel said, when from the blue-y sea
The swollen sail did daunce before his eyne;
Swift as the wish, he to the beach did flee,
And found his father stepping from the brine,
Let thyssen men, who have the sprite of love,
Bethink unto themselves how might the meeting prove!