Ambergris

AMBERGRIS 115 FROM GARGOYLES The King-Ghost The King-Ghost is abroad. His spectre legions Sweep from their icy lakes and bleak ravines Unto these weary and untrodden regions Where man lies penned among his Might-have-beens. Keep us in safety, Lord, What time the King-Ghost is abroad ! The King-Ghost from his grey malefic slumbers Awakes the malice of his bloodless brain. He marshals the innumerable numbers Of shrieking shapes on the sepulchral plain. Keep us, for Jesu’s sake, What time the King-Ghost is awake ! 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 ?