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!