We will not slay the foe by sight—
he comes again, as ever fated,
upon a horse of ghostly white,
the nameless rider consecrated.
A crown he wears, a bow he strains,
his gift to man: disease and guile.
The fever spreads through blood and brains,
and they shall name him Plague the while.
The second came—an Angel of Vengeance,
his mare a raging chestnut flame;
with blood and battle for his sentence,
War was the burden of his name.
To him was given a mighty sword,
and right to seize the earth entire;
the martyr’s blood became his hoard,
a draught to feed his holy fire.
Then came the knight in sable shroud,
his steed as black as sleepless sin;
through war’s long smoke he rode unbowed—
Famine was the shade within.
The scales he bore would weigh on men’s trials,
the meagre grain, the broken yield;
and want would walk through dusty miles—
the fourth one now takes up the field.
And lo — I looked, a pale horse came,
and Death rode out, his visage bare;
the living left were but a frame,
a quarter clung to poisoned air.
And he who’d passed the former three,
through torment, blood, and choking breath—
had faced his final prophecy,
and drawn his last—resisting—death.