SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT
The saint of Mary ”—there he stayed,
For out of Memnon’s singing stone
So fierce a questing barked and brayed,
It turned his laughter to a groan.
His vow forgot, his task undone,
His soul whipped in God’s bitter school!
(He moaned a mighty malison !)
The perfect knight? The perfect fool!
“Now, by God’s wounds!” quoth he, “my strength
Is burnt out to a pest of pains.
Let me fling off my curse at length
In old Chaldea’s starry plains!
Thou blesséd Jesus, foully nailed
Unto the cruel Calvary tree,
Look on my soul’s poor fort assailed
By all the hosts of devilry !
Is there no medicine but death
That shall avail me in my place,
That I may know the Beauteous Breath
And taste the Goodly Gift of Grace?
Keep Thou yet firm this trembling leaf
My soul, dear God Who died for men;
Yea! for that sinner-soul the chief,
Sir Palamede the Saracen!”
77