The Faithful Steed

GRAF TTTKNECK, after a toilsome ride
By night, in a chapel desired to bide.

The chapel stood in a greenwood deep:
In this, thought the Graf, may I safely sleep.

There lay in the vault of the chapel narrow
A king who had died of a poisoned arrow.

The Graf he sprung from his horse on the plain,
And he said, u Graze here till I come again."

The portal oped with a gnarring sound;
Deep stillness reigned in the vault around.

The Graf in a niche of the aged wall
Discovered a coffin and crumbling pall.

"Here by the Dead may the Living be borne;
I rest on this coffin till dawn of morn."

The Graf lay down, a stranger to fear,

On the mouldering planks of the royal bier.

The sun came over the mountains red;
The Graf came never — the Graf was dead.

Three hundred years have rolled and more,
And the steed still tarries before the door.

The chapel is hasting to swift decay,

But the steed grazes yet in the moon's blue ray,