SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT
“We burn,” quoth he, “no futile fires,
Nor play upon an idle reed,
Nor penance vain, nor fatuous prayers—
The Gods are ours, and we are theirs.”
Sir Palamedes plucks the pipe
The satyr tends, and blows a trill
So soft and warm, so red and ripe,
That echo answers from the hill
In eager and voluptuous strain,
While grows upon the sounding plain
A gallop, and a questing turned
To one profound melodious bay.
Sir Palamede with pleasure burned,
And bowed him to the idol grey
That on the altar sneered and leered
With loose red lips behind his beard.
Sir Palamedes and the Beast
Are woven in a web of gold
Until the gilding of the East
Burns on the wanton-smiling wold :
And still Sir Palamede believed
His holy quest to be achieved !
But now the dawn from glowing gates
Floods all the land: with snarling lip
The Beast stands off and cachinnates.
That stings the good knight like a whip,
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