62
SIR PALAMEDES, THE SARACEN KNIGHT
The knight at last wins to behold
The full conception. Breathless-blue
The fair lake’s mirror crystal-cold
Wherein he gazes, keen to view
The vast Design therein, to chase
The Beast to his last avenue.
Then—O thou gosling scant of grace!
The dream breaks, and Sir Palamede
Wakes to the glass of his fool’s face!
“ Ah, ’sdeath!” (quod he), “by thought and deed
This brute for ever mocketh me.
The lance is made a broken reed,
The brain is but a barren tree—
For all the beautiful Design
Is but mine own geometry!”
With that his wrath brake out like wine.
He plunged his body in, and shattered
The whole delusion asinine.
All the false water-nymphs that flattered
He killed with his resounding curse—
O fool of God! as if it mattered!
So, nothing better, rather worse,
Out of the blue bliss of the pool
Came dripping that inveterate fool!