112
THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD
Surely there stole a subtle madness
Into their veins, more strong than death:
For all the roots of sin and sadness
Were plucked. As a flower perisheth,
So all sin died. And in that place
All they did know the Beauteous Breath
And taste the Goodly Gift of Grace.
Then fell the night. Above the baying
Of the great Beast, that was the bass
To all the harps of Heaven a-playing,
There came a solemn voice (not one
But was upon his knees in praying
And glorifying God). The Son
Of God Himself—men thought—spoke then.
“ Arise! brave soldier, thou hast won
The quest not given to mortal men.
Arise! Sir Palamede Adept,
Christian, and no more Saracen !
On wake or sleeping, wise, inept,
Still thou didst seek. Those foolish ways
On which thy folly stumbled, leapt,
All led to the one goal. Now praise
Thy Lord that He hath brought thee through
To win the quest!” The good knight lays