XVI
Where shafts of moonlight splash the vale,
Beside a stream there sits and strains
Sir Palamede, with passion pale,
And haggard from his broken brains.
Yet eagerly he watches still
A mossy mound where dainty grains
Of gilded corn their beauty spill
To tempt the quarry to the range
Of Palamede his archer skill.
All night he sits, with ardour strange
And hope new-fledged. A gambler born
Aye thinks the luck one day must change,
Though sense and skill he laughs to scorn.
So now there rush a thousand rats
In sable silence on the corn.
They sport their square or shovel hats,
A squeaking, tooth-bare brotherhood,
Innumerable as summer gnats
43