THE DEATH-SPRITE
(A ballad for God)
A. D. 909
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!