Sir Palamedes

XXVI Srr PaLaMEDE the Saracen Hath gotten him a swift canoe, Paddled by stalwart South Sea men. They cleave the oily breasts of blue, Straining toward the westering disk Of the tall sun; they battle through Those weary days; the wind is brisk; The stars are clear; the moon is high. Now, even as a white basilisk That slayeth all men with his eye, Stands up before them tapering The cone of speechless sanctity. Up, up its slopes the pilgrims swing, Chanting their pagan gramarye Unto the dread volcano-king. “ Now, then, by Goddes reed!” quod he, “ Behold the secret of my quest In this far-famed stability| 69