Sir Palamedes

“We burn,” quoth he, “no futile fires, Nor play upon an idle reed, Nor penance vain, nor fatuous prayers— The Gods are ours, and we are theirs.” Sir Palamedes plucks the pipe The satyr tends, and blows a trill So soft and warm, so red and ripe, That echo answers from the hill In eager and voluptuous strain, While grows upon the sounding plain A gallop, and a questing turned To one profound melodious bay. Sir Palamede with pleasure burned, And bowed him to the idol grey That on the altar sneered and leered With loose red lips behind his beard. Sir Palamedes and the Beast Are woven in a web of gold Until the gilding of the East Burns on the wanton-smiling wold : And still Sir Palamede believed His holy quest to be achieved ! But now the dawn from glowing gates Floods all the land: with snarling lip The Beast stands off and cachinnates. That stings the good knight like a whip, 41