Pale is the face of the King
Like one in a deadly swoon;
Wan o’er the waste of waters
Glimmers the waning moon.
THE WOLF OF IRONWOOD
Ho for the white of the withered bough
And the red of the wrinkled leaf!
Sir Arngrim sits in Ironwood,
And his heart is filled with grief.
The sun sinks down on Ironwood
Blood-red behind the trees;
Sir Arngrim stares upon the sword
That lies across his knees.
“Oh my father died a death of blood,
And my mother of wasting woe;
And their spirits dwell in the rocky fell
Where the trees of Ironwood grow.
“And still the guilt of the life-blood spilt
Doth unavenged remain;
And in the red of the wrinkled leaf
I read my father’s pain.
“Oh the kings were three, sailed o’er the sea
To work us havoc and harm;
And I see in the white of the wizened bough
My mother’s beckoning arm.”
Sir Arngrim stood with the sea beneath
And the rocky fell behind,
And there he saw three gallant ships
That sailed before the wind.
“Oh red of hand, they come to land
With a host and a mighty horde!
And how shall I wreak my father’s death
With the power of a single sword?”
When the writhen shadows in Ironwood
Grew long, and the fading rim
Of the sun sank low behind the fell,
The witch-wife came to him.