106
THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD
That crouch like jackals. Stress and shock
Move Palamede no more. Like Fate
He moves with silent speed. They flock,
The Gods, to watch him. Now abate
His pulses ; he threads through the vale,
And turns him to the mighty gate,
The glacier. Oh, the flowers that scale
Those sun-kissed heights! The snows that crown
The quartz ravines! The clouds that veil
The awful slopes! Dear God! look down
And see this petty man move on,
Relentless as Thine own renown,
Careless of praise or orison,
Simply determined. Wilt Thou launch
(This knight's presumptuous head upon)
The devastating avalanche?
He knows too much, and cares too little!
His wound is more than Death can staunch.
He can avoid, though by one tittle,
Thy surest shaft! And now the knight,
Breasting the crags, may laugh and whittle
Away the demon-club whose might
Threatened him. Now he leaves the spur;
And eager, with a boy’s delight,