58
XXI
Now doth Sir Palamede advance
The lord of many a sword and lance.
In merrie England’s summer sun
Their shields and arms a-glittering glance
And laugh upon the mossy mead.
Now winds the horn of Palamede,
As far upon the horizon
He spies the Questing Beast a-feed.
With loyal craft and honest guile
They spread their ranks for many a mile.
For when the Beast hath heard the horn
He practiseth his ancient wile,
And many a myriad beasts invade
The stillness of that arméd glade.
Now every knight to rest hath borne
His lance, and given the accolade,
And run upon a beast: but they
Slip from the fatal point away
And course about, confusing all
That gallant concourse all the day,