22
VII
BeHotp Sir Lancelot of the Lake
Breasting the stony screes : behold
How breath must fail and muscle ache
Before he reach the icy fold
That Palamede the Saracen
Within its hermitage may hold.
At last he cometh to a den
Perched high upon the savage scaur,
Remote from every haunt of men,
From every haunt of life afar.
There doth he find Sir Palamede
Sitting as steadfast as a star.
Scarcely he knew the knight indeed,
For he was compassed in a beard
White as the streams of snow that feed
The lake of Gods and men revered
That sitteth upon Caucasus.
So muttered he a darkling weird,