Thy sprite to haunt delighteth best,
Whether upon the blood-embrued plain—
Or where thou ken'st from far,
The dismal cry of war,
Or see'st some mountain made of corses slain,
"Or see'st the war-clad steed
That prances o'er the mead,
And neighs to be among the pointed spears—
Or in black armour stalk around
Embattled Bristol, once thy ground,