XXIII
Now still he holdeth argument :
“So grand a Beast must house him well ;
Hence, now beseemeth me frequent
Cathedral, palace, citadel.”
So, riding fast among the flowers
Far off, a Gothic spire he spies,
That like a gladiator towers
Its spear-sharp splendour to the skies.
The people cluster round, acclaim :
“Sir Knight, good knight, thy quest is won.
Here dwells the Beast in orient flame,
Spring-sweet, and swifter than the sun!”
Sir Palamede the Saracen
Spurs to the shrine, afire to win
The end; and all the urgent men
Throng with him eloquently in.
Sir Palamede his vizor drops;
He lays his loyal lance in rest;
He drives the rowels home—he stops!
Faugh! but a black-mouthed money-chest!
63