The King-Ghost wears a crown of hopes forgotten;
Dead loves are woven in his ghastly robe;
Bewildered wills and faiths grown old and rotten
And deeds undared his sceptre, sword, and
globe.
Keep us, O Mary maid,
What time the King-Ghost goes arrayed !
The Hell-Wind whistles through his plumeless
pinions;
Clanks all that melancholy host of bones;
Fate’s principalities and Death’s dominions
Echo the drear discord, the tuneless tones.
Keep us, dear God, from ill,
What time the Hell-Wind whistles shrill.
The King-Ghost hath no music but their rattling ;
No scent but death’s grown faint and fugitive;
No light but this their leprous pallor battling
Weakly with night. Lord, shall these dry bones
live?
O keep us in the hour
Wherein the King-Ghost hath his power!
III