Ill
TueErE is a rock by Severn mouth
Whereon a mighty castle stands,
Fronting the blue impassive South
And looking over lordly lands.
Oh! high above the envious sea
This fortress dominates the tides ;
There, ill at heart, the chivalry
Of strong Sir Palamede abides.
Now comes irruption from the folk
That live by murder: day by day
The good knight strikes his deadly stroke;
The vultures claw the attended prey.
But day by day the heathen hordes
Gather from dreadful lands afar,
A myriad myriad bows and swords,
As clouds that blot the morning star.
Soon by an arrow from the sea
The Lady of Palamede is slain ;
His son, in sally fighting free,
Is struck through burgonet and brain.