Alas! alas! for the bloody chrism
The king’s son got that day!
For the queen fell down at the self-same stroke
Nor turned not where she lay.
He’s seized his young son in his arms,
And busked his steed to flee;
Like a crooked shadow the grisly witch
Runs ever beside his knee.
With laughter shrill she’s by him still
While the misty moon grows dim—
Ere he can cross the running burn
She’s reft the babe from him.
Where the priests of eld high worship held
The witch-wife laughs alone;
“The babe she bore shall learn my lore,
And dance by the carven stone!”
The tapers’ light is quenched in night—
Hushed is the holy bell—
The pale priest’s blood is on the rood—
The old gods have their will.
. . . .
Now on a day when years are gone
The knights they rise apace—
For the sound of the horn in the dim red morn
Has called them to the chase.
The gaunt grey wolf-hounds growl and grin,
And the king is at their head—
His face is white in the breaking light
As the face of one new-dead;
His voice is hollow as one that cries
In a dreary vault of stone;
And, on thin lips, his smile is grim,
For the trampled branches sound to him
Like the cracking of bare-bleached bone.
Ho, holla-ho! the game’s afoot!
He breaks for the open moor!
But hearts grow chill, as the pack cries shrill,
That ne’er felt fear before.
The horses sweat, they plunge and fret,
Tho’ the spur with blood drop fast—
Each man looks on his fellow’s face,
And sees it all aghast—