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?
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