10
THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD
But day by day the foes increase,
Though day by day their thousands fall:
Laughs the unshaken fortalice ;
The good knights laugh no more at all.
Grimmer than heathen hordes can scowl,
The spectre hunger rages there;
He passes like a midnight owl,
Hooting his heraldry, despair.
The knights and squires of Palamede
Stalk pale and lean through court and hall;
Though sharp and swift the archers speed
Their yardlong arrows from the wall.
Their numbers thin; their strength decays;
Their fate is written plain to read.
These are the dread deciduous days
Of iron-souled Sir Palamede.
He hears the horrid laugh that rings
From camp to camp at night ; he hears
The cruel mouths of murderous kings
Laugh out one menace that he fears.
No sooner shall the heroes die
Than, ere their flesh begin to rot,
The heathen turns his raving eye
To Caerlon and Camelot.