Sir Palamedes

22 VII BeHotp Sir Lancelot of the Lake Breasting the stony screes : behold How breath must fail and muscle ache Before he reach the icy fold That Palamede the Saracen Within its hermitage may hold. At last he cometh to a den Perched high upon the savage scaur, Remote from every haunt of men, From every haunt of life afar. There doth he find Sir Palamede Sitting as steadfast as a star. Scarcely he knew the knight indeed, For he was compassed in a beard White as the streams of snow that feed The lake of Gods and men revered That sitteth upon Caucasus. So muttered he a darkling weird,