A grim old king,
Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed
To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds,
Won a rich kingdom on a battle day;
But in the sunset he was ebbing fast,
Ringed by his weeping lords.

His left hand held his white steed, to the belly splashed with blood,
That seemed to mourn him with its drooping head;
   His right, his broken brand; and in his ear
   His old victorious banners flap the winds.
He called his faithful herald to his side, -
"Go! tell the dead
I come."

With a proud smile,
The warrior with a stab let out his soul,
Which fled and shrieked through all the other world,
  "Ye dead! ... My master comes!"
  And there was pause
Till the great shade should enter.