SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT
Treads the impending glacier.
Now, now he strikes the steep black ice
That leads to the last neck. By Her
That bore the Lord, by what device
May he pass there? Yet still he moves,
Ardent and steady, as if the price
Of death were less than life approves,
As if on eagles’ wings he mounted,
Or as on angels’ wings—or love’s!
So, all the journey he discounted,
Holding the goal. Supreme he stood.
Upon the summit; dreams uncounted,
Worlds of sublime beatitude !
He passed beyond. The All he hath touched,
And dropped to vile desuetude.
What lay beyond? What star unsmutched
By being? His poor fingers fumble,
And all the Naught their ardour clutched,
Like all the rest, begins to crumble.
Where is the Beast? His bliss exceeded
All that bards sing of or priests mumble;
No man, no God, hath known what he did.
Only this baulked him—that he lacked
Exactly the one thing he needed.
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