DEATH IN THE FOREST

Where the greenwood is greenest

At gloaming of day,

Where the twelve-antler'd stag

Faces boldest at bay;

Where the solitude deepens,

Till almost you hear

The blood-beat of the heart

As the quarry slips near;

His comrades outridden

With scorn in the race,

The Red King is hallooing

His bounds to the chase.

What though the Wild Hunt

Like a whirlwind of hell

Yestereve ran the forest,

With baying and yell:—

In his cups the Red heathen

Mocks God to the face;

—‘ In the devil's name, shoot;

Tyrrell, ho!— to the chase!’

— Now with worms for his courtiers

He lies in the narrow

Cold couch of the chancel!

— But whence was the arrow?

The dread vision of Serlo

That call'd him to die,

The weird sacrilege terror

Of sleep, have gone by.

The blood of young Richard

Cries on him in vain,

In the heart of the Lindwood

By arbalest slain.

And he plunges alone

In the Serpent-glade gloom,

As one whom the Furies

Hound headlong to doom.

His sin goes before him,

The lust and the pride;

And the curses of England

Breathe hot at his side.

And the desecrate walls

Of the Evil-wood shrine

Lo, he passes — unheeding

Dark vision and sign:—

— Now with worms for his courtiers

He lies in the narrow

Cold couch of the chancel:

— But whence was the arrow?

Then a shudder of death

Flicker'd fast through the wood:—

And they found the Red King

Red-gilt in his blood.

What wells up in his throat?

Is it cursing, or prayer?

Was it Henry, or Tyrrell,

Or demon, who there

Has dyed the fell tyrant

Twice crimson in gore,

While the soul disincarnate

Hunts on to hell-door?

— Ah! friendless in death!

Rude forest-hands fling

On the charcoaler's wain

What but now was the king!

And through the long Minster

The carcass they bear,

And huddle it down

Without priest, without prayer:—

Now with worms for his courtiers

He lies in the narrow

Cold couch of the chancel:

— But whence was the arrow?