40
XV
Sir PaLaMeEDE the Saracen
Hath come to an umbrageous land
Where nymphs abide, and Pagan men.
The Gods are nigh, say they, at hand.
How warma throb from Venus stirs
The pulses of her worshippers !
Nor shall the Tuscan God be found
Reluctant from the altar-stone :
His perfume shall delight the ground,
His presence to his folk be known
In darkling grove and glimmering shrine—
O ply the kiss and pour the wine!
Sir Palamede is fairly come
Into a place of glowing bowers,
Where all the Voice of Time is dumb:
Before an altar crowned with flowers
He seeth a satyr fondly dote
And languish on a swan-soft goat.
Then he in mid-caress desires
The ear of strong Sir Palamede.