SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT
Until one billow curls to leap,
And flings him breathless on the shore
Half drowned. O fool! his God’s asleep,
His armour in illusion’s war
Itself illusion, all his might
And courage vain. Yet ardours pour
Through every artery. The knight
Scales the Himalaya’s frozen sides,
Crowned with illimitable light,
And there in constant war abides,
Smiting the spangles of the snow ;
Smiting until the vernal tides
Of earth leap high ; the steady flow
Of sunlight splits the icy walls :
They slide, they hurl the knight below.
Sir Palamede the mighty falls
Into an hollow where there dwelt
A bearded crew of monachals
Asleep in various visions spelt
By mystic symbols unto men.
But when a foreigner they smelt
They drive him from their holy den,
And with their glittering eyeballs pelt
Sir Palamede the Saracen.