The Equinox (Volume I, Number III)

THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD So halted he his horse, and bent To catch remembrance from the eyes That stared to God, whose ardour sent His radiance from the ruthless skies. Then like a statue still he sate; Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle stirred; While round them flapped insatiate The fell, abominable bird. But coldest horror drave the light From knightly eyes. How pale thy bloom, Thy blood, O brow whereon the night Sits like a serpent on a tomb! For Palamede those eyes beheld The iron image of his own ; On those dead brows a fate he spelled To strike a Gorgon into stone. He knew his father. Still he sate, Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle stirred ; While round them flapped insatiate The fell, abominable bird. The knight approves the justice done, And pays with that his rowels’ debt ; While yet the forehead of the son Stands beaded with an icy sweat.