Sir Palamedes

XVI Where shafts of moonlight splash the vale, Beside a stream there sits and strains Sir Palamede, with passion pale, And haggard from his broken brains. Yet eagerly he watches still A mossy mound where dainty grains Of gilded corn their beauty spill To tempt the quarry to the range Of Palamede his archer skill. All night he sits, with ardour strange And hope new-fledged. A gambler born Aye thinks the luck one day must change, Though sense and skill he laughs to scorn. So now there rush a thousand rats In sable silence on the corn. They sport their square or shovel hats, A squeaking, tooth-bare brotherhood, Innumerable as summer gnats 43