Sir Palamedes

40 XV Sir PaLaMeEDE the Saracen Hath come to an umbrageous land Where nymphs abide, and Pagan men. The Gods are nigh, say they, at hand. How warma throb from Venus stirs The pulses of her worshippers ! Nor shall the Tuscan God be found Reluctant from the altar-stone : His perfume shall delight the ground, His presence to his folk be known In darkling grove and glimmering shrine— O ply the kiss and pour the wine! Sir Palamede is fairly come Into a place of glowing bowers, Where all the Voice of Time is dumb: Before an altar crowned with flowers He seeth a satyr fondly dote And languish on a swan-soft goat. Then he in mid-caress desires The ear of strong Sir Palamede.