We came at last to a place that shone,
In the taper's glimmer, golden
And bright with gems; of the Holy Three Kings
'Twas the chapel rich and olden.

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But the Holy Three Kings who used to lie
So still in their jewelled prison
Were seated on their sarcophagus,
From their ancient sleep uprisen.

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Three skeletons lean in fantastic array,
Their poor yellow skulls still wearing
Their royal crowns, and a sceptre proud
Their bony fingers bearing!

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They jerked and moved their long dead bones
Like puppets, stiffly, slowly;
They smelt of decay and rotten dust,
Mingled with incense holy.

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And one of them even opened his mouth
And made me a speech, a long one;
He expounded to me his claims to respect:
Thought each of his points a strong one.

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The first of the reasons was that he was dead;
That a king he was, the second;
The third that he was a saint; the whole
Of but little account I reckoned.

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I answered him merrily, "Vainly you strive
To convince a man who so sage is
That at once he seizes the vital point—
You belong to vanished ages.

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"Begone! The deep, forgotten grave
Is the proper place for you now.
Your chapel's treasures belong to life,
And the living claim their due now.

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"This sacred roof, in the days to come,
Is decreed by Fate for a stable,
And, should you resist, we'll eject you with clubs
As an obsolete, foolish fable."

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Having spoken thus, I turned about,
And saw behind me shining
My dumb companion's dreadful axe.
My wishes straight divining,

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He advanced with his fearful axe and smote—
They might have been brick and mortar—
Those skeletons three of a false belief—
He showed them little quarter.

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With awful groans the vaulted roof
Re-echoed his axe's thunder;
The streams of blood from my bosom ran
And I woke with a start of wonder.

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