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.