THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD
So halted he his horse, and bent
To catch remembrance from the eyes
That stared to God, whose ardour sent
His radiance from the ruthless skies.
Then like a statue still he sate;
Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle stirred;
While round them flapped insatiate
The fell, abominable bird.
But coldest horror drave the light
From knightly eyes. How pale thy bloom,
Thy blood, O brow whereon the night
Sits like a serpent on a tomb!
For Palamede those eyes beheld
The iron image of his own ;
On those dead brows a fate he spelled
To strike a Gorgon into stone.
He knew his father. Still he sate,
Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle stirred ;
While round them flapped insatiate
The fell, abominable bird.
The knight approves the justice done,
And pays with that his rowels’ debt ;
While yet the forehead of the son
Stands beaded with an icy sweat.