THE DEATH-SPRITE

Three kings with naught of a care To a hunting went; Three kings of stirrup fair And of yew-bow bent. Away they rode with a song On the summer tide; Away from thrid and throng By the blue lake side. And "Ho!" they vaunted aloud To the morning hills. And "Ha!"—What reck the proud For the God of Ills? Naught! so they swagged thro the glade Where the roe-buck rose: She nosed the wind, affrayed By the blod "Ho, hos!" "Three arrows now to her heart!" They shouted, and sped, Each king, an evil dart With a flinten head. And O she staggered down— O unpitied, slain! But in her dreadful swoun There was more than pain! For Horror sprang from her blood, A Spectre of Death! It drew them thro the wood— Where a Chapel saith Masses for souls that are lost In the wilds of sin— There mumbled, "Ye'll pay cost Ere to shrift ye win!" Then led them to a bay tree By an open grave, Where three ghost-kings in three Stony coffins clave. Which spake, "Lo, we too were fair!"— "Unto this ye'll come!"— "Ay ye, who of naught beware!"— So spake—and were dumb. Then of fright and dread the kings flung Away yew-tree bow (The Chapel bell slow rung With the bleak wind's blow). And fast they fled thro the glade To the castle hall. But God had not been stayed— They were lepers, all! Woe then to kings! to the pelf That men call pride! Christ shrive us all from self, From the Death-sprite hide!