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XXXIII
Sir PALAMEDE the Saracen
Hath passed unto the tideless sea,
That the keen whisper of the wind
May bring him that which never men
Knew—on the quest, the quest, rides he!
So long to seek, so far to find !
So weary was the knight, his limbs
Were slack as new-slain dove’s; his knees
No longer gripped the charger rude.
Listless, he aches ; his purpose swims
Exhausted in the oily seas
Of laxity and lassitude.
The soul subsides; its serious motion
Still throbs ; by habit, not by will.
And all his lust to win the quest
Is but a passive-mild devotion.
(Ay! soon the blood shall run right chill
—And is not death the Lord of Rest ?)
There as he basks upon the cliff
He yearns toward the Beast ; his eyes
Are moist with love; his lips are fain