Sir Palamedes

The saint of Mary ”—there he stayed, For out of Memnon’s singing stone So fierce a questing barked and brayed, It turned his laughter to a groan. His vow forgot, his task undone, His soul whipped in God’s bitter school! (He moaned a mighty malison !) The perfect knight? The perfect fool! “Now, by God’s wounds!” quoth he, “my strength Is burnt out to a pest of pains. Let me fling off my curse at length In old Chaldea’s starry plains! Thou blesséd Jesus, foully nailed Unto the cruel Calvary tree, Look on my soul’s poor fort assailed By all the hosts of devilry ! Is there no medicine but death That shall avail me in my place, That I may know the Beauteous Breath And taste the Goodly Gift of Grace? Keep Thou yet firm this trembling leaf My soul, dear God Who died for men; Yea! for that sinner-soul the chief, Sir Palamede the Saracen!” 77