The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
The silver light, so pale and faint,
Shew'd many a prophet, and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red
Triumphal Michael brandished,
And trampled the Apostate's pride.
The moon beam kiss'd the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.