An ye be foe to this good man, alas!
No art shall save you though ye walk in brass.
Swift to your heart shall the Black Death be sped.
The woods are still—for that was years ago—
And now no baleful presence haunts the glade,
No train-band rules the highway as of yore.
Romance is dead. Adventure, too, lies low.
Long in the grave is Duckworth's kingdom laid,
And the black arrow speeds its way no more.