Sir Palamedes

So halted he his horse, and bent To catch remembrance from the eyes That stared to God, whose ardour sent His radiance from the ruthless skies. Then like a statue still he sate; Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle stirred; While round them flapped insatiate The fell, abominable bird. But coldest horror drave the light From knightly eyes. How pale thy bloom, Thy blood, O brow whereon the night Sits like a serpent on a tomb! For Palamede those eyes beheld The iron image of his own ; On those dead brows a fate he spelled To strike a Gorgon into stone. He knew his father. Still he sate, Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle stirred ; While round them flapped insatiate The fell, abominable bird. The knight approves the justice done, And pays with that his rowels’ debt ; While yet the forehead of the son Stands beaded with an icy sweat.