Sir Palamedes

14 Sir Palamede the Saracen Rides like a centaur mad with war; He sabres many a million men, And tramples many a million more! Before him lies the untravelled land Where never a human soul is known, A desert by a wizard banned, A soulless wilderness of stone. Nor grass, nor corn, delight the vales ; Nor beast, nor bird, span space. Immense, Black rain, grey mist, white wrath of gales, Fill the dread armoury of sense. Nor shines the sun; nor moon, nor star Their subtle light at all display ; Nor day, nor night, dispute the scaur: All’s one intolerable grey. Black Ilyns, grey rocks, white hills of snow! No flower, no colour: life is not. This is no way for men to go From Severn-mouth to Camelot. Despair, the world upon his speed, Drive (like a lion from his den Whom hunger hunts) the man at need, Sir Palamede the Saracen.