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,