14
SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT
Sir Palamede the Saracen
Rides like a centaur mad with war;
He sabres many a million men,
And tramples many a million more!
Before him lies the untravelled land
Where never a human soul is known,
A desert by a wizard banned,
A soulless wilderness of stone.
Nor grass, nor corn, delight the vales ;
Nor beast, nor bird, span space. Immense,
Black rain, grey mist, white wrath of gales,
Fill the dread armoury of sense.
Nor shines the sun; nor moon, nor star
Their subtle light at all display ;
Nor day, nor night, dispute the scaur:
All’s one intolerable grey.
Black Ilyns, grey rocks, white hills of snow!
No flower, no colour: life is not.
This is no way for men to go
From Severn-mouth to Camelot.
Despair, the world upon his speed,
Drive (like a lion from his den
Whom hunger hunts) the man at need,
Sir Palamede the Saracen.