XXVI
Srr PaLaMEDE the Saracen
Hath gotten him a swift canoe,
Paddled by stalwart South Sea men.
They cleave the oily breasts of blue,
Straining toward the westering disk
Of the tall sun; they battle through
Those weary days; the wind is brisk;
The stars are clear; the moon is high.
Now, even as a white basilisk
That slayeth all men with his eye,
Stands up before them tapering
The cone of speechless sanctity.
Up, up its slopes the pilgrims swing,
Chanting their pagan gramarye
Unto the dread volcano-king.
“ Now, then, by Goddes reed!” quod he,
“ Behold the secret of my quest
In this far-famed stability|
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