The Equinox (Volume I, Number III)

36 THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD But plucking up his will, doth launch A mighty poison-dippéd dart : It fareth ever sure and staunch, And smiteth him upon the haunch. Then as Sir Palamede overhauls The stricken quarry, slack it droops, Staggers, and final down it falls. Triumph! Gape wide, ye golden walls! Lift up your everlasting doors, O gates of Camelot! See, he swoops Down on the prey! The life-blood pours: The poison works : the breath implores Its livelong debt from heart and brain. Alas! poor stag, thy day is done! The gallant lungs gasp loud in vain: Thy life is spilt upon the plain. Sir Palamede is stricken numb As one who, gazing on the sun, Sees blackness gather. Blank and dumb, The good knight sees a thin breath come Out of his proper mouth, and dart Over the plain : he seeth it Sure by some black magician art Shape ever closer like an hart: