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: