Chapter III

Of Elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold,
Split spilled the scaley sunbeams wrinkled off.
What brought thee here?--This wind that steals the old
Weird legends from the forests, with a scoff
To laugh them thro' their beards? Or, in those weeds,
The hermit brook so busy with his beads?--
How many _Aves_, _Paters_ doth he say
In one droned minute on his rosary
Of bubbles--wot'st thou?--Pucker-eyed didst mark
Yon lank hag-tapers, yellow by yon way,
A haggard company of seven?--See
How dry swim by such curled brown bits of bark?