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Bhikkhu Ananda Met t eyya my good knight comrade in t he quest , I dedicat e t his imperf ect account of it , in
some small recognit ion of his suggest ion of it s form.

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L Sir Palamede, t he Saracen knight , riding on t he shore of Syria, findet h his fat her’s corpse, around which an
albat ross circlet h. He approvet h t he vengeance of his peers.
LL On t he shore of Arabia he findet h his mot her in t he embrace of a loat hly negro beneat h blue pavilions. Her
he slayet h, and burnet h all t hat encampment .
LLL Sir Palamede is besieged in his cast le by Severn mout h, and his wife and son are slain.
LY. Hearing t hat his fall is t o be but t he prelude t o an at t ack of Camelot , he maket h a desperat e night sort ie,
and will t raverse t he wilds of Wales.
Y At t he end of his resources among t he Welsh mount ains, he is compelled t o put t o deat h his only remaining
child. By t his sacrifice he saves t he world of chivalry.
YL He having become an holy hermit , a cert ain dwarf , splendidly clot hed, comet h t o Art hur’s court , bearing
t idings of a Quest ing Beast . The knight s fail t o lift him, t his being t he t est of wort hiness.
YLL. Lancelot findet h him upon Scawfell, clot hed in his whit e beard. he ret urnet h, and, t ouching t he dwarf
but wit h his finger, herlet h him t o t he heaven.
YLLL Sir Palamede, riding f ort h on t he quest , seet h a Druid worship t he sun upon St onehenge. He ridet h
east ward, and findet h t he sun set t ing in t he west . Furious he t aket h a Viking ship, and by sword and whip
faret h seaward.
L[. Coming t o India, he learnet h t hat It glit t eret h. Vainly fight ing t he waves,t he leaves, and t he snows, he is
swept in t he Himalayas as by an avalanche int o a valley where dwell cert ain ascet ics, who pelt him wit h t heir
eyeballs.
[Seeking It as Maj est y, he chaset h an elephant in t he Indian j ungle. The elephant escapet h; but he, led t o
Trichinopoli by an Indian lad, seet h an elephant forced t o dance ungainly before t he Mahalingam.
[LA Scyt hian sage declaret h t hat It t ranscendet h Reason. Therefore Sir Palamede unreasonably decapit at et h
him.
[LLAn ancient hag prat et h of It as Evangelical. Her he hewed in pieces.
{v}
[LLL At Naples he t hinket h of t he Beast as aut hor of Evil, because Free of Will. The Beast , st art ing up, is slain
by him wit h a poisoned arrow; but at t he moment of It s deat h It is reborn from t he knight ’s own belly.
[LY At Rome he meet et h a red robber in a Hat , who speaket h nobly of It as of a king-dove-lamb. He chaset h
and slayet h it ; it proves but a child’s t oy.
[Y. In a Tuscan grove he findet h, from t he ant ics of a Sat yr, t hat t he Gods sill dwell wit h men. Mist aking
orgasm for ecst ast y, he is found ridiculous.
[YL Bait ing for It wit h gilded corn in a moonlit vale of Spain, he findet h t he bait st olen by bermin.
[YLL In Cret e a met aphysician weavet h a labyrint h. Sir Palamede compellet h him t o pursue t he quarry in t his
same fashion. Running like hippogriffs, t hey plunge over t he precipice; and t he hermit , dead, appears but a
mangy ass. Sir Palamede, sore wounded, is borne by f ishers t o an hut .
[YLLL Sir Palamede not et h t he swift ness of t he Beast . He t herefore climbet h many mount ains of t he Alps. Yet
can he not cat ch It ; It out runnet h him easily, and at last , st umbling, he fallet h.
[L[ Among t he dunes of Brit t any he findet h a wit ch dancing and conj uring, unt il she disappearet h in a blaze
of light . He t hen learnet h music, from a vile girl, unt il he is as skilful as Orpheus. In Paris he playet h in a
public place. The people, at first t hrowing him coins, soon desert him t o follow a foolish Egypt ian wizard. No
Beast comet h t o his call.
[[He arguet h out t hat t here can be but on Beast . Following single t racks, he at lengt h findet h t he quarry,
but on pursuit It elduet h hi by mult iplying it self. This on t he wide plains of France.
[[LHe gat heret h an army sufficient t o chase t he whole herd. In England’s midst t hey rush upon t hem; but
t he herd j oin t oget her, leading on t he kinght s, who at lengt h rush t oget her int o a mle, wherein all but Sir
Palamede are slain, while t he Beast , as ever, st andet h aloof, laughing.
[[LL. He arguet h It s exist ence from design of t he Cosmos, not ing t hat It s t racks form a geomet rical figure.
But seet h t hat t his depends upon his sense of geomet ry; and is t herefore no proof. Medit at ing upon t his
likeness t o himself - It s subj ect ivit y, in short - he seet h It in t he Blue Lake.
Thit her plunging, all is shat t ered.
[[LLL Seeking It in shrines he findet h but a money-box; while t hey t hat helped him (as t hey said) in his
search, but robbed him.
[[LY Arguing It s obscurit y, he seeket h It wit hin t he bowels of Et na, cut t ing off all avenues of sense. His own
t hought s pursue him int o madness.
{vi}
[[Y Upon t he Pacific Ocean, he, t hinking t hat It is not -Self, t hrowet h himself int o t he sea. But t he Beast
set t et h him ashore.
[[YL Rowed by Kanakas t o Japan, he praiset h t he st abilit y of Fuj i-Yama.
But , an eart hquake arising, t he pilgrims are swallowed up.
[[YLL Upon t he Yang-t ze-kiang he cont emplat et h immort al change. Yet , perceiving t hat t he changes
t hemselves const it ut e st abilit y, he is again baulked, and biddet h his men bear him t o Egypt .
[[YLLL. In an Egypt ian t emple he hat h performed t he Bloody Sacrifice, and cursed Osiris. Himself suffering
t hat curse, he is st ill far from t he At t ainment .
[[L[. In t he land of Egypt he performet h many miracles. But f rom t he st at ue of Memnon issuet h t he quest ing,
and he is recalled from t hat illusion.
[[[ Upon t he plains of Chaldea he descendet h int o t he bowels of t he eart h, where he beholdet h t he Visible
Image of t he soul of Nat ure for t he Beast . Yet Eart h belchet h him fort h.
[[[LIn a slum cit y he converset h wit h a Rat ionalist . Learning not hing, nor even hearing t he Beast , he goet h
fort h t o cleanse himself.
[[[LL Seeking t o imit at e t he Beast , he goet h on all-fours, quest ing horribly. The t ownsmen cage him for a
lunat ic. Nor can he imit at e t he elusiveness of t he Beast . Yet at one not e of t hat quest ing t he prison is
shat t ered, and Sir Palamede rushet h fort h free.
[[LLL Sir Palamede hat h gone t o t he shores of t he Middle Sea t o rest ore his healt h. There he pract iset h
devot ion t o t he Beast , and becomet h maudlin and sent iment al. His knaves mocking him, he beat et h one sore;
from whose belly issuet h t he quest ing.
[[LY. Being ret ired int o an hermit age in Fenland, he t raverset h space upon t he back of an eagle. He knowet h
all t hings - save only It . And incont inent beseedhet h t he eagle t o set him down again.
[[[Y He lect uret h upon met aphysics - for he is now t ot ally insane - t o many learned monks of Cant abrig.
They applaud him and det ain him, t hough he hat h heard t he quest ion and would away. But so feeble is he
t hat he fleet h by night .
[[[YL It hat h oft en happened t o Sir Palamede t hat he is haunt ed by a shadow, t he which he may not
recognise. But at last , in a sunlit wood, t his is discovered t o be a cert ain hunchback, who doubt et h whet her
t here be at all any Beast or any quest , or if t he whole life of Sir Palamede be not a vain illusion. Him,
wit hout seeing t o conquer wit h words, he slayet h incont inent .
[[[YLL In a cave by t he sea, feeding on limpet s androot s, Sir Palamede abidet h, sick unt o deat h.
Himseemet h t he Beast quest et h wit hin his own bowels; he is t he {vii} Beast . St anding up, t hat he may enj oy
t he reward, he findet h anot her answer t o t he riddle. Yet abidet h in t he quest .
[[[YLLL Sir Palamede is confront ed by a st ranger knight , whose arms are his own, as also his feat ures. This
knight mocket h Sir OPalamede for an impudent pret ender, and impersonat or of t he chosen knight . Sir
Palamede in all humilit y allowet h t hat t here is no proof possible, and offeret h ordeal of bat t le, in which t he
st ranger is slain. Sir Palamede hewet h him int o t he smallest dust wit hout pit y.
[[[L[ In a green valley he obt ainet h t he vision of Pan. Thereby he regainet h all t hat he had expended of
st rengt h and yout h; is gladdened t hereat , for he now devot et h again his life t o t he quest ; yet more ut t erly
cast down t han ever, for t hat t his supreme vision is not t he Beast .
[O Upon t he loft iest summit of a great mount ain he perceivet h Naught . Even t his is, however, not t he Beast .
[OL. Ret urning t o Camelot t o announce his failure, he maket h ent rance int o t he King’s hall, whence he st art ed
out upon t he quest . The Beast comet h nest ling t o him. All t he knight s at t ain t he quest . The voice of Christ is
heard: well done. He sayet h t hat each failure is a st ep in t he Pat h. The poet prayet h success t herein for
himself and his readers.

{viii}
 7+(+,*++,6725<2)*22'6,53$/$0('(6

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,6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Rode by t he marge of many a sea: He had slain a t housand evil men And set a
t housand ladies free. Armed t o t he t eet h, t he glit t ering kinght Galloped along t he sounding shore, His silver
arms one lake of light , Their clash one symphony of war. How st ill t he blue enamoured sea Lay in t he blaze
of Syria’s noon! The et ernal roll et ernally Beat out it s monot onic t une. Sir Palamede t he Saracen A dreadful
vision here espied, A sight abhorred of gods and men, Bet ween t he limit of t he t ide. The dead man’s t ongue
was t orn away; The dead man’s t hroat was slit across; There flapped upon t he put rid prey A carrion,
screaming albat ross. {3}
So halt ed he his horse, and bent To cat ch remembrance from t he eyes That st ared t o God, whose ardour sent
His radiance from t he rut hless skies. Then like a st at ue st ill he sat e; Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle st irred;
While round t hem f lapped insat iat e The fell, abominable bird. But t he coldest horror drave t he light From
knight ly eyes. How pale t hy bloom, Thy blood, O brow whereon t hat night Sit s like a serpent on a t omb! For
Palamede t hose eyes beheld The iron image of his own; On t hose dead brows a fat e he spelled To st rike a
Gorgon int o st one. He knew his fat her. St ill he sat e, Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle st irred; While round
t hem f lapped insat iat e The fell, abominable bird. The knight approves t he j ust ice done, And pays wit h t hat
his rowels’ debt ; While yet t he forehead of t he son St ands beaded wit h an icy sweat . {4}
God’s angel, st anding sinist er, Unfurls t his scroll - a sable st ain: "Who wins t he spur shall ply t he spur Upon his
proper heart and brain." He gave t he sign of malison On t rait or knight s and perj ured men; And ever by t he
sea rode on Sir Palamede t he Saracen.

,,%(+2/' Arabia’s burning shore Rings t o t he hoofs of many a st eed. Lord of a legion rides t o war The
indomit able Palamede. The Paynim fly; his t roops delight In murder of many a myriad men, Following
exult ant int o fight Sir Palamede t he Saracen. Now when a year and day are done Sir Palamedes is aware Of
blue pavilions in t he sun, And banneret s flut t ering in t he air. Forward he spurs; his armour gleams; Then on
his haunches rears t he st eed; Above t he lordly silk t here st reams The pennon of Sir Palamede! Af lame, a
bridegroom t o his spouse, He rides t o meet wit h galliard grace Some scion of his holy house, Or germane t o
his royal race. {6}
But oh! t he eyes of shame! Beneat h The t all pavilion’s sapphire shade There sport a band wit h wand and
wreat h, Languorous boy and laughing maid. And in t he cent re is a sight Of hat ef ul love and shameless shame:
A recreant Abyssianian knight Sport s grossly wit h a want on dame. How black and swinish is t he knave! His
hellish grunt , his best ial grin; Her t rilling laugh, her gest ure suave, The cool sweat swimming on her skin! She
looks and laughs upon t he knight , Then t urns t o buss t he blubber mout h, Draining t he dregs of t hat black
blight Of wine t o ease t heir double drout h! God! what a glance! Sir Palamede Is st ricken by t he sword of fat e:
His mot her it is in very deed That gleeful goes t he goat ish gait . His mot her it his, t hat pure and pale Cried in
t he pangs t hat gave him birt h; The holy image he would veil From aught t he t iniest t aint of eart h. {7}
She knows him, and black fear bedim Those eyes; she offers t o his gaze The blue-veined breast s t hat suckled
him In childhood’s sweet and solemn days. Weeping she bares t he holy womb! Shrieks out t he mot her’s last
appeal: And reads irrevocable doom In t hose dread eyes of ice and st eel. He winds his horn: his warriors pour
In t housands on t he fenceless foe; The sunset st ains t heir hideous war Wit h crimson bars of aft er-glow. He
winds his horn; t he night -st ars leap To light ; upspring t he sist ers seven; While answering f lames illume t he
deep, The blue pavilions blaze t o heaven. Silent and st ern t he nort hward way They ride; alone before his
men St aggers t hrough black t o rose and grey Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {8}

,,,7+(5( is a rock by Severn mout h Whereon a might y cast le st ands, Front ing t he blue impassive Sout h And
looking over lordly lands. Oh! high above t he envious sea This fort ress dominat es t he t ides; There, ill at
heart , t he chivalry Of st rong Sir Palamede abides. Now comes irrupt ion from t he fold That live by murder:
day by day The good knight st rikes his deadly st roke; The vult ures claw t he at t ended prey. But day by day
t he heat hen hordes. Gat her from dreadf ul lands afar, A myriad myriad bows and swords, As clouds t hat blot
t he morning st ar. Soon by an arrow from t he sea The Lady of Palamede is slain; His son, in sally fight ing f ree,
Is st ruck t hrough burgonet and brain. {9}
But day by day t he foes increase, Though day by day t heir t housands fall: Laughs t he unshaken fort alice; The
good knight s laugh no more at all. Grimmer t han heat her hordes can scowl, The spect re hunger rages t here;
He passes like a midnight owl, Hoot ing his heraldry, despair. The knight s and squires of Palamede St alk pale
and lean t hrough court and hall; Though sharp and swift t he archers speed Their yardlong arrows from t he
wall. Their numbers t hin; t heir st rengt h decays; Their fat e is writ t en plain t o read: These are t he dread
deciduous days Of iron-souled Sir Palamede. He hears t he horrid laugh t hat rings From camp t o camp at
night ; he hears The cruel mout hs of murderous kings Laugh out one menace t hat he f ears. No sooner shall t he
heroes die Than, ere t heir flesh begin t o rot , The heat hen t urns his raving eye To Caerlon and Camelot . King
Art hur in ignoble slot h Is sunk, and dalliance wit h his dame, Forget ful of his knight ly oat h, And careless of his
kingly name. Befooled and cuckolded, t he king Is yet t he king, t he king most high; And on his life t he hinges
swing That close t he door of chivalry. ’Sblood! shall it sink, and rise no more, That blaze of t ime, when men
were men? That is t hy quest ion, warrior Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {11}

,91RZ, wit h t wo score of men in life And one fair babe, Sir Palamede Resolves one last heroic st rif e,
At t empt s forlorn a desperat e deed. At dead of night , a moonless night , A night of wint er st orm, t hey sail In
dancing dragons t o t he fight Wit h man and sea, wit h ghoul and gale. Whom God shall spare, ride, ride! (so
springs The iron order). Let him fly On honour’s st eed wit h honour’s wings To warn t he king, lest honour die!
Then t o t he fury of t he blast Their fury adds a dreadf ul st ing: The fat al die is surely cast . To save t he king -
t o save t he king! Hail! horror of t he midnight surge! The st orms of deat h, t he lashing gust , The doubt f ul
gleam of swords t hat urge Hot laught er wit h high-leaping lust ! {12}
Though one by one t he heroes fall, Their desperat e way t hey slowly win, And knight ly cry and comrade-call
Rise high above t he savage din. Now, now t hey land, a dwindling crew; Now, now fresh armies hem t hem
round. They cleave t heir blood-bought avenue, And clust er on t he upper ground. Ah! but dawn’s dreadful
front uprears! The t all t owers blaze, t o illume t he fight ; While many a myriad heat hen spears March
nort hward at t he earliest light . Falls t hy last comrade at t hy feet , O lordly-souled Sir Palamede? Tearing t he
savage from his seat , He leaps upon a coal-black st eed. He gallops raging t hrough t he press: The affright ed
heat hen f ear his eye. There madness gleams, t here mast erless The whirling sword shrieks shrill and high. The
shrink, he gallops. Closely clings The child slung at his waist ; and he Heeds nought , but gallops wide, and
sings Wild war-songs, chant s of gramarye! {13}
Sir Palamded t he Saracen Rides like a cent aur mad wit h war; He sabres many a million men, And t ramples
many a million more! Before him lies t he unt ravelled land Where never a human soul is known, A desert by a
wizard banned, A soulless wilderness of st one. Nor grass, nor corn, delight t he vales; Nor beast , nor bird,
span space. Immense, Black rain, grey mist , whit e wrat h of gales, Fill t he dread armoury of sense. NOr shines
t he sun; nor moon, nor st ar Their subt le light at all display; Nor day, nor night , disput e t he scaur: All’s one
int olerable grey. Black llyns, grey rocks, whit e hills of snow! No flower, no colour: life is not . This is no way
for men t o go From Severn-mout h t o Camelot . Despair, t he world upon his speed, Drive (like a lion from his
den Whom hunger hunt s) t he man at need, Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {14}

96,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Hat h cast his sword and arms aside. To save t he world of goodly men, He set s
his t eet h t o ride - t o ride! Three days: t he black horse drops and dies. The t rappings furnish t hem a fire, The
beast a meal. Wit h dreadf ul eyes St are int o deat h t he child, t he sire. Six days: t he gaunt and gallant knight
Sees hat eful visions in t he day. Where are t he ant ient speed and might Were wont t o animat e t hat clay? Nine
days; t hey st umble on; no more His st rengt h avails t o bear t he child. St ill hangs t he mist , and st ill before
Yawns t he immeasurable wild. Twelve days: t he end. Afar he spies The mount ains st ooping t o t he plain; A
lit t le splash of sunlight lies Beyond t he everlast ing rain. {15}
His st rengt h is done; he cannot st ir. The child complains - how feebly now! His eyes are blank; he looks at
her; The cold sweat gat hers on his brow. To save t he world - t hree days away! His life in knight hood’s life is
furled, And knight hood’s lif e in his - t o-day! - His darling st aked against t he world! Will he die t here, his t ask
undone? Or dare he live, at such a cost ? He cries against t he impassive sun: The world is dim, is all but lost .
When, wit h t he bit t erness of deat h Cut t ing his soul, his fingers clench The pit eous passage of her breat h. The
dews of horror rise and drench Sir Palamede t he Saracen. Then, rising from t he hideous meal, He plunges t o
t he land of men Wit h nerves renewed and limbs of st eel. Who is t he naked man t hat rides Yon t ameless
st allion on t he plain, His face like Hell’s? What fury guides The maniac beast wit hout a rein? {16}
Who is t he naked man t hat spurs A charger int o Camelot , His face like Christ ’s? what glory st irs The air around
him, do ye wot ? Sir Art hur arms him, makes array Of seven t imes t en t housand men, And bids t hem follow
and obey Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {17}

9,6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen The eart h from murder hat h released, Is hidden f rom t he eyes of men. Sir
Art hur sit s again at feast . The holy order burns wit h zeal: It s fame revives from west t o east . Now, following
Fort une’s whirling-wheel, There comes a dwarf t o Art hur’s hall, All cased in damnascen?d st eel. A scept re and
a golden ball He bears, and on his head a crown; But on his shoulders drapes a pall Of velvet f lowing sably
down Above his vest of cramoisie. Now dot h t he king of high renown Demand him of his dignit y. Whereat t he
dwarf begins t o t ell A quest of loft iest chivalry. {18}
Quod he: "By Goddes holy spell, So high a vent ure was not known, Nor so divine a miracle. A cert ain beast
t here runs alone, That ever in his belly sounds A hugeous cry, a monst er moan, As if a t hirt y couple hounds
Quest ed wit h him. Now God sait h (I swear it by His holy wounds And by His lament able deat h, And by His holy
Mot her’s face!) That he shall know t he Beaut eous Breat h And t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace Who shall
achieve t his marvel quest ." Then Art hur st ert e up from his place, And st ert e up boldly all t he rest , And sware
t o seek t his goodly t hing. But now t he dwarf dot h beat his breast , And speak on t his wise t o t he king, That he
should wort hy knight be found Who wit h his hands t he dwarf should bring By might one span from off t he
ground. Whereat t hey j eer, t he dwarf so small, The knight s so st rong: t he walls resound {19}
Wit h laught er rat t ling round t he hall. But Art hur first essays t he deed, And may not budge t he dwarf at all.
Then Lancelot sware by Goddes reed, And pulled so st rong his muscel burst , His nose and mout h brake out a-
bleed; Nor moved he t hus t he dwarf. From first To last t he envious knight s essayed, And all t heir malice had
t he worst , Till st rong Sir Bors his prowess played - And all his might avail?d nought ,. Now once Sir Bors had
been bet rayed To Paynim; him in t rait rise caught , They bound t o four st rong st allion st eers, To t ear asunder,
as t hey t hought , The paladin of Art hur’s peers. But he, a-bending, breaks t he spine Of t hree, and on t he
fourt h he rears His bulk, and rides away. Divine t he wonder when t he giant fails To st ir t he fat uous dwarf ,
malign Who smiles! But Boors on Art hur rails That never a knight is wort h but one. "By Goddes deat h" (quod
he), "what ails {20}
Us marsh-light s t o forget t he sun? There is one man of mort al men Wort hy t o win t his benison, Sir Palamede
t he Saracen." Then went t he applauding murmur round: Sir Lancelot girt him t here and t hen To ride t o t hat
enchant ed ground Where amid t imeless snows t he den Of Palamedes might be f ound.2 {21}

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And smot e his bosom murderous. His nails like eagles’ claws were grown; His eyes were wild and dull; but
t hus Sir Lancelot spake: "Thy deeds at one By knight ly devoir!" He ret urned That "While t he land was
overgrown Wit h giant , fiend, and ogre burned My sword; but now t he Paynim bars Are broke, and men t o
virt ue t urned: Therefore I sit upon t he scars Amid my beard, even as t he sun Sit s in t he company of t he
st ars!" Then Lancelot bade t his deed be done, The achievement of t he Quest ing Beast . Which when he spoke
t hat holy one Rose up, and gat him t o t he east Wit h Lancelot ; when as t hey drew Unt o t he palace and t he
feast He put his lit t lest finger t o The dwarf, who rose t o upper air, Piercing t he far et ernal blue Beyond t he
reach of song or prayer. Then did Sir Palamede amend His nakedness, his horrent hair, {23}
His nails, and made his penance end, Clot hing himself in st eel and gold, Arming himself , his lif e t o spend IN
vigil cold and wandering bold, Disdaining song and dalliance soft , Seeking one purpose t o behold, And holding
ever t hat aloft , Nor fearing God, nor heeding men. So t hus his hermit habit doffed Sir Palamede t he Saracen.
{24}

9,,,.12: ye where Druid dolmens rise In Wessex on t he widow plain? Thit her Sir Palamedes plies The spur,
and shakes t he rat t ling rein. He quest ions all men of t he Beast . None answer. Is t he quest in vain? Wit h oaken
crown t here comes a priest In samit e robes, wit h hazel wand, And worships at t he gilded East . Ay! t hit her
ride! The dawn beyond Must run t he quarry of his quest . He rode as he were wood or fond, Unt il at night
behoves him rest . - He saw t he gilding far behind Out on t he hills t oward t he West ! Wit h aimless fury hot and
blind He flung him on a Viking ship. He slew t he rover, and inclined {25}
The seamen t o his st inging whip. Accurs’d of God, despising men, Thy reckless oars in ocean dip, Sir
Palamede t he Saracen! {26}

,;6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Sailed ever wit h a favouring wind Unt o t he smoot h and swart hy men That
haunt t he evil shore of Hind: He queried eager of t he quest . "Ay! Ay!" t heir cunning sages grinned: "It shines!
It shines! Guess t hou t he rest ! For naught but t his our Rishis know." Sir Palamede his way addressed Unt o t he
woods: t hey blaze and glow; His lance st abs many a shining blade, His sword lays many a flower low That
glit t ering gladdened in t he glade. He wrot e himself a want on ass, And t o t he sea his t races laid, Where many
a wavelet on t he glass His prowess knows. But deep and deep His fut ile f eet in fury pass, {27}
Unt il one billow curls t o leap, And f lings him breat hless on t he shore Half drowned. O fool! his God’s asleep,
His armour in illusion’s war It self illusion, all his might And courage vain. Yet ardours pour Through every
art ery. The knight Scales t he Himalaya’s frozen sides, Crowned wit h illimit able light , And t here in const ant
war abides, Smit ing t he spangles of t he snow; Smit ing unt il t he vernal t ides Of eart h leap high; t he st eady
flow Of sunlight split s t he icy walls: They slide, t hey hurl t he knight below. Sir Palamede t he might y falls Int o
an hollow where t here dwelt A bearded crew of monachals Asleep in various visions spelt By myst ic symbols
unt o men. But when a foreigner t hey smelt They drive him from t heir holy den, And wit h t heir glit t ering
eyeballs pelt Sir Palamede t he Saracen.3 {28}

:(+127(,QRWKHUZRUGVZKHQ&URZOH\ZHQWVHDUFKLQJIRUDQHDVWHUQPDVWHULQDQGDERXWWKH,QGLDQ
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XSVXUJHG{29}
The monst er from t he oozy bed, And bounded t hrough t he crashing glades. - but now a st aring savage head
Lurks at him t hrough t he f orest shades. This was a naked Indian, Who led wit hin t he cit y gat e The fooled and
disappoint ed man, Already broken by his fat e. Here were t he brazen t owers, and here t he scuplt ured rocks,
t he marble shrine Where t o a t all black st one t hey rear The alt ars due t o t he divine. The God t hey deem in
sensual j oy Absorbed, and silken dalliance: To please his leisure hours a boy Compels an elephant t o dance.
So maj est y t o ridicule Is t urned. To ot her climes and men Makes off t hat st rong, persist ent fool Sir Palamede
t he Saracen. {30}

;,6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Hat h hied him t o an holy man, Sit h he alone of mort al men Can help him, if a
mort al can. (So t ell him all t he Scyt hian folk.) Wheref ore he makes a caravan, And finds him. When his
prayers invoke The holy knowledge, sait h t he sage: "This Beast is he of whom t here spoke The prophet s of
t he Golden Age: ’Mark! all t hat mind is, he is not .’" Sir Palamede in bit t er rage St ert e up: "Is t his t he fool, ’Od
wot , To see t he like of whom I came From cast ellat ed Camelot ?" The sage wit h eyes of burning flame Cried:
"Is it not a miracle? Ay! for wit h folly t ravellet h shame, {31}
And t heret o at t he end is Hell Believe! And why believe? Because It is a t hing impossible." Sir Palamede his
pulses pause. "It is not possible" (quod he) "That Palamede is wrot h, and draws His sword, decapit at ing t hee.
By parit y of argument This deed of blood must surely be." Wit h t hat he suddenly besprent All Scyt hia wit h t he
sage’s blood, And laught ing in his woe he went Unt o a furt her field and f lood, Aye guided by t hat wizard’s
head, That like a windy moon did scud Before him, winking eyes of red And snapping j aws of whit e: but t hen
What cared for living or for dead Sir Palamede t he Saracen? {32}

;,,6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Follows t he Head t o gloomy halls Of st erile hat e, wit h icy walls. A woman
clucking like a hen Answers his lordly bugle-calls. She rees him in ungainly rede Of ghost s and virgins, doves
and wombs, Of roods and prophecies and t ombs - Old pagan fables run t o seed! Sir Palamede wit h fury
fumes. So dot h t he Head t hat j abbers fast Against t hat woman’s t angled t ale. (God’s pat ience at t he end must
fail!) Out sweeps t he sword - t he blade hat h passed Through all her scraggy fart hingale. "This chat t er lends t o
Thought a zest " (Quod he), "but I am all for Act . Sit here, unt il your Talk hat h cracked The addled egg in
Nat ure’s nest !" Wit h t hat he fled t he dismal t ract . {33}
He was so sick and ill at ease And hot against his fellow men, He t hought t o end his purpose t hen - Nay! let
him seek new lands and seas, Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {34}

;,,,6,53$/$0('( is come anon Int o a blue delicious bay. A mount ain t owers t hereupon, Wherein some fiend
of ages gone Is whelmed by God, yet from his breast Spit s up t he f lame, and ashes grey. Hereby Sir Palamede
his quest Pursues wit hout en let or rest . Seeing t he evil mount ain be, Remembering all his evil years, He
knows t he Quest ing Beast runs free - Aut hor of Evil, t hen, is he! Whereat immediat e resounds The noise he
hat h sought so long: appears There quest a t hirt y couple hounds Wit hin it s belly as it bounds. Lift ing his eyes,
he sees at last The beast he seeks: ’t is like an hart . Ever it courset h far and fast . Sir Palamede is sore aghast ,
{35}
But plucking up his will, dot h launch A might poison-dipp?d dart : It faret h ever sure and st aunch, And smit et h
him upon t he haunch. Then as Sir Palamede overhauls The st ricken quarry, slack it droops, St aggers, and
final down it falls. Triumph! Gape wide, ye golden walls! Lift up your everlast ing doors, O gat es of Camelot !
See, he swoops Down on t he prey! The life-blood pours: The poison works: t he breat h implores It s livelong
debt f rom heart and brain. Alas! poor st ag, t hy day is done! The gallant lungs gasp loud in vain: Thy life is
spilt upon t he plain. Sir Palamede is st ricken numb As one who, gazing on t he sun, Sees blackness gat her.
Blank and dumb, The good knight sees a t hin breat h come Out of his proper mout h, and dart Over t he plain:
he seet h it Sure by some black magician art Shape ever closer like an hart : {36}
While such a quest ing t here resounds As God had loosed t he very Pit , Or as a t hirt y couple hounds Are in it s
belly as it bounds! Full sick at heart , I ween, was t hen The loyal knight , t he weak of wit , The but t of lewd
and puny men, Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {37}

;,91257+:$5' t he good knight gallops fast , Resolved t o seek his foe at home, When rose t hat Vision of t he
past , The royal bat t lement s of Rome, A ruined cit y, and a dome. There in t he broken Forum sat A red-robed
robber in a Hat . "Whit her away, Sir Knight , so fey?" "Priest , for t he dove on Ararat I could not , nor I will not ,
st ay!" "I know t hy quest . Seek on in vain A golden hart wit h silver horns! Life springet h out of divers pains.
What crown t he King of Kings adorns? A crown of gems? A crown of t horns! The Quest ing Beast is like a king In
face, and hat h a pigeon’s wing And claw; it s body is one fleece Of bloody whit e, a lamb’s in spring. Enough.
Sir Knight , I give t hee peace." {38} The Knight spurs on, and soon espies A monst er coursing on t he plain. he
hears t he horrid quest ing rise And t hunder in his weary brain. This t ime, t o slay it or be slain! Too easy t ask!
The charger gains St ride af t er st ride wit h lit t le pains Upon t he lumbering, f lapping t hing. He st abs t he lamb,
and split s t he brains Of t hat maj est ic-seeming king. He clips t he wing and pares t he claw - What t urns t o
laught er all his j oy, To wondering ribaldry his awe? The beast ’s a mere mechanic t oy, Fit t o amuse an idle
boy! {39}

;96,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Hat h come t o an umbrageous land Where nymphs abide, and Pagan men. The
Gods are nigh, say t hey, at hand. How warm a t hrob f rom Venus st irs The pulses of her worshippers! Nor shall
t he Tuscan God be found Reluct ant f rom t he alt ar-st one: His perfume shall delight t he ground, His presence
t o his hold be known In darkling grove and glimmering shrine - O ply t he kiss and pour t he wine! Sir Palamede
is fairly come Int o a place of glowing bowers, Where all t he Voice of Time is dumb: Before an alt ar crowned
wit h flowers He seet h a sat yr fondly dot e And languish on a swan-soft goat . Then he in mid-caress desires
The ear of st rong Sir Palamede. {40}
"We burn," qout h he, "no f ut ile fires, Nor play upon an idle reed, Nor penance vain, nor fat uous prayers - The
Gods are ours, and we are t heirs." Sir Palamedes plucks t he pipe The sat yr t ends, and blows a t rill So soft and
warm, so red and ripe, That echo answers from t he hill In eager and volupt uous st rain, While grows upon t he
sounding plain A gallop, and a quest ing t urned To one profound melodious bay. Sir Palamede wit h pleasure
burned, And bowed him t o t he idol grey That on t he alt ar sneered and leered Wit h loose red lips behind his
beard. Sir Palamedes and t he Beast Are woven in a web of gold Unt il t he gilding of t he East Burns on t he
want on-smiling wold: And st ill Sir Palamede believed His holy quest t o be achieved! But now t he dawn from
glowing gat es Floods all t he land: wit h snarling lip The Beast st ands off and cachinnat es. That st ings t he good
knight like a whip, {41}
As suddenly Hell’s own disgust Eat s up t he j oy he had of lust . The brut al glee his folly t ook For holy j oy breaks
down his brain. Off bolt s t he Beast : t he eart h is shook As out a quest ing roars again, As if a t hirt y couple
hounds Are in it s belly as it bounds! The peasant s gat her t o deride The knight : creat ion j oins in mirt h.
Ashamed and scorned on every side, There gallops, hat eful t o t he eart h, The laughing-st ock of beast s and
men, Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {42}

;9,:+(5(shaft s of moonlight splash t he vale, Beside a st ream t here sit s and st rains Sir Palamede, wit h
passion pale, And haggard from his broken brains. Yet eagerly he wat ches st ill A mossy mound where daint y
grains Of gilded corn t heir beaut y spill To t empt t he quarry t o t he range Of Palamede his archer skill. All
might he sit s, wit h ardour st range And hope new-fledged. A gambler born Aye t hings t he luck one day must
change, Though sense and skill he laughs t o scorn. so now t here rush a t housand rat s In sable silence on t he
corn. They sport t heir square or shovel hat s, A squeaking, t oot h-bare brot herhood, Innumerable as summer
gnat s {43}
Buzzing some st reamlet t hrough a wood. Sir Palamede grows might y wrot h, And mut t ers maledict ions rude,
Seeing his quarry far and lot h And t hieves despoiling all t he bait . Now, careless of t he knight ly oat h, The sun
pours down his east ern gat e. The chase is over: see ye t hen, Coursing afar, afoam at fat e Sir Palamede t he
Saracen! {44}

;9,,6,53$/$0('( hat h t old t he t ale Of t his misfort une t o a sage, How all his vent ures nought avail, And all
his hopes dissolve in rage. "Now by t hine holy beard," quot h he, "And by t hy venerable age I charge t hee t his
my riddle ree." Then said t hat gent le eremit e: "This t ask is easy unt o me! Know t hen t he Quest ing Beast
aright ! One is t he Beast , t he Quest ing one: And one wit h one is t wo, Sir Knight ! Yet t hese are one in t wo, and
none disj oins t heir subst ance (mark me well!), Confounds t heir persons. Right ly run Their at t ribut es:
immeasurable, Incomprehensibundable, Unspeakable, inaudible, {45} Int angible, ingust able, Insensit ive t o
human smell, Invariable, implacable, Invincible, insciable, Irrat ionapsychicable, Inequilegij urable,
Immamemimomummable. Such is it s nat ure: wit hout part s, Places, or persons, plumes, or pell, Having nor
lungs nor light s nor heart s, But t wo in one and one in t wo. Be he accurs?d t hat dispart s Them now, or
seemet h so t o do! Him will I pile t he curses on; Him will I hand, or saw him t hrough, Or burn wit h fire, who
doubt s upon This doct rine, hot ot ot on spells The holy word ot ot ot on." The poor Sir Palamedes quells His rising
spleen; he doubt s his ears. "How may I cat ch t he Beast ?" he yells. The smiling sage rebukes his fears: "’Tis
easier t han all, Sir Knight ! By simple fait h t he Beast appears. {46}
By simple fait h, not heat hen might , Cat ch him, and t hus achieve t he quest !" Then quot h t hat melancholy
wight : "I will believe!" The hermit blessed His convert : on t he horizon Appears t he Beast . "To t hee t he rest !"
He cries, t o urge t he good knight on. But no! Sir Palamedes grips The hermit by t he woebegone Bear of him;
t hen away he rips, Wood as a maniac, t o t he West , Where down t he sun in splendour slips, And where t he
quarry of t he quest Cant ers. They run like hippogriffs! Like men pursued, or swine possessed, Over t he dizzy
Cret an cliffs t hey smash. And lo! it comes t o pass He sees in no dim hieroglyphs, In knowledge easy t o amass,
This hermit (while he drew his breat h) Once dead is like a mangy ass. Bruised, broken, but not bound t o
deat h, He calls some passing fishermen To bear him. Present ly he sait h: {47}
"Bear me t o some remot est den To Heal me of my ills immense; For now hat h neit her might nor sense Sir
Palamede t he Saracen." {48}

;9,,,6,53$/$0('(6 for a space Deliberat es on his rust ic bed. "I lack t he quarry’s awful pace" (Quod he); "my
limbs are slack as lead." So, as he get s his st rengt h, he seeks The cast les where t he pennons red Of dawn
illume t heir dreadful peaks. There dragons st ret ch t heir horrid coils Adown t he winding cleft s and creeks:
From hideous mout hs t heir venom boils. But Palamede t heir fury ’scapes, Their malice by his valour foils,
Climbing aloft by bays and capes Of rock and ice, encount ers oft The loat hly sprit es, t he mist y shapes Of
monst er brut es t hat lurk aloft . O! well he works: his yout h ret urns His heart revives: despair is doffed {49}
And eager hope in brilliance burns Wit hin t he circle of his brows As fast he flies, t he snow he spurns. Ah!
what a yout h and st rengt h he vows To t he achievement of t he quest ! And now t he horrid height allows His
mast ery: day by day from crest To crest he hast ens: fast er fly His feet : his body knows not rest , Unt il wit h
magic speed t hey ply Like oars t he snowy waves, surpass In one day’s march t he galaxy Of Europe’s st arry
mount ain mass. "Now," quot h he, "let me find t he quest !" The Beast st ert e up. Sir Knight , Alas! Day aft er day
t hey race, nor rest Till seven days were fairly done. Then dot h t he Quest ing Marvel crest The ridge: t he
knight is well out run. Now, adding laught er t o it s din, Like some lewd comet at t he sun, Around t he pant ing
paladin It runs wit h all it s splendid speed. Yet , knowing t hat he may not win, {50}
He st rains and st rives in very deed, So t hat at last a boulder t rips The hero, t hat he burst s a-bleed, And
sanguine from his bearded lips The t orrent of his being breaks. The Beast is gone: t he hero slips Down t o t he
valley: he forsakes The fond idea (every bone In all his body burns and aches) By speed t o at t ain t he dear
Unknown, By force t o achieve t he great Beyond. Yet from t hat brain may spring full-grown Anot her folly j ust
as fond. {51}

;,;7+(NQLJKW hat h found a naked girl Among t he dunes of Bret on sand. She spinnet h in a myst ic whirl, And
hat h a bagpipe in her hand, Wherefrom she drawet h dismal groans The while her maddening saraband She
plies, and wit h discordant t ones Desires a cert ain devil-grace. She gat hers wreckage-wood, and bones Of
seamen, j et sam of t he place, And builds t herewit h a fire, wherein She dances, bounding int o space Like an
inflat ed ass’s skin. She raves, and reels, and yells, and whirls So t hat t he t ears of t oil begin To dew her
breast s wit h ardent pearls. Nor dot h she mit igat e her dance, The bagpipe ever louder skirls, {52}
Unt il t he shapes of deat h advance And gat her round her, shrieking loud And wailing o’er t he wide expanse Of
sand, t he gibbering, mewing crowd. Like cat s, and apes, t hey gat her close, Till, like t he horror of a cloud
Wrapping t he f laming sun wit h rose, They hide her from t he hero’s sight . Then dot h he must t hereat morose,
When in one wild cascade of light The pageant breaks, and t hunder roars: Down flaps t he loat hly wing of
night . He sees t he lonely Bret on shores Lapped in t he levin: t hen his eyes See how she shrieking soars and
soars Int o t he st arless, st ormy skies. Well! well! t his lesson will he learn, How music’s mellowing art ifice May
bid t he breast of nat ure burn And call t he gods from st ar and shrine. So now his sounding courses t urn To find
an inst rument divine Whereon he may pursue his quest . How glit t er green his gleeful eyne {53}
When, where t he mice and lice infest A filt hy hovel, lies a wench Bearing a baby at her breast , Drunk and
debauched, one solid st ench, But carrying a silver lut e. ’Boardet h her, nor dot h baulk nor blench, And long
abidet h brut e by brut e Amid t he unsavoury denzens, Unt il his melodies uproot The oaks, lure lions from t heir
dens, Turn rivers back,and st ill t he spleen Of serpent s and of Saracens. Thus t hen equipped, he quit s t he
quean, And in a cit y fair and wide Calls up wit h music wild and keen The Quest ing Marvel t o his side. Then do
t he sport f ul cit y folk About his lonely st ance abide: Making t heir holiday, t hey j oke The melancholy ass: t hey
t hrow Their clat t ering coppers in his poke. so day and night t hey come and go, But never comes t he Quest ing
Beast , Nor dot h t hat laughing people know {54}
How agony’s unleavening yeast St irs Palamede. Anon t hey t ire, And follow an Egypt ian priest Who boast s him
mast er of t he fire To draw down light ning, and invoke The gods upon a sandal pyre, And bring up devils in t he
smoke. Sir Palamede is all alone, Wrapped in his misery like a cloak, Despairing now t o charm t he Unknown.
So arms and horse he t akes again. Sir Palamede hat h overt hrown The j est ers. Now t he count ry men, St upidly
st aring, see at noon Sir Palamede t he Saracen A-riding like an harvest moon In silver arms, wit h glit t ering
lance, Wit h plum?d helm, and wing?d shoon, At hwart t he admiring land of France. {55}

;;6,53$/$0('( hat reasoned out Beyond t he shadow of a doubt That t his his Quest ing Beast is one; For
were it Beast s, he must suppose An earlier Beast t o f at her t hose. So all t he t racks of herds t hat run Int o t he
forest he discards, And only t urns his dark regards On single print s, on marks unique. Sir Palamede dot h now
at t ain Unt o a wide and grassy plain, Whereon he spies t he t hing t o seek. Thereat he put t et h spur t o horse
And runnet h him a random course, The Beast a-quest ing aye before. But praise t o good Sir Palamede! ’Hat h
got t en him a fairy st eed Alike for venery and for war, So t hat in lit t le drawing near The quarry, lift et h up his
spear To run him of his malice t hrough. {56}
Wit h t hat t he Beast hopes no escape, Dissolvet h all his lordly shape, Split t et h him sudden int o t wo. Sir
Palamede in fury runs Unt o t he nearer beast , t hat shuns The shock, and split s, and split s again, Unt il t he
baffled warrior sees A myriad myriad swarms of t hese A-quest ing over all t he plain. The good knight reins his
charger in. "Now, by t he fait h of Paladin! The subt le quest at last I hen." Rides off t he Camelot t o plight The
fait h of many a noble knight , Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {57}

;;,1RZdot h Sir Palamede advance The lord of many a sword and lance. in merrie England’s summer sun
Their shields and arms a-glit t ering glance And laugh upon t he mossy mead. Now winds t he horn of Palamede,
As far upon t he horizon He spies t he Quest ing Beast a-feed. Wit h loyal craft and honest guile They spread
t heir ranks for many a mile. for when t he Beast hat heard t he horn he pract iset h his ancient wile, And many
a myriad beast s invade The st illness of t hat arm?d glade. Now every knight t o rest hat h borne His lance, and
given t he accolade, And run upon a beast : but t hey Slip from t he fat al point away And course about ,
confusing all That gallant concourse all t he day, {58}
Leading t hem ever t o a vale Wit h hugeous cry and monst er wail. t hen suddenly t heir voices fall, And in t he
park’s resounding pale Only t he clamour of t he chase is heard: oh! t o t he cent re race The unsuspicious
knight s: but he The Quest ing Beast his former face Of unit y resumes: t he course Of warriors shocks wit h man
and horse. In mut ual madness swift t o see They shat t er wit h unbridled force One on anot her: down t hey go
Swift in st upendous overt hrow. Out sword! out lance! Curiass and helm Splint er beneat h t he knight ly blow.
t hey st orm, t hey charge, t hey hack and hew, They rush and wheel t he press at hrough. The weight , t he
murder, over whelm One, t wo, and all. Nor silence knew His empire t ill Sir Palamede (The last ) upon his f airy
st eed St ruck down his brot her; t hen at once Fell silence on t he bloody mead, {59}
Unt il t he quest ing rose again. For t here, on t hat ensanguine plain St andet h a-laughing at t he dunce The
single Beast t hey had not slain. There, wit h his friends and followers dead, His brot her smit t en t hrough t he
head, Himself sore wounded in t he t high, Weepet h upon t he deed of dread, Alone among his murdered men,
The champion fool, as fools were t hen, Ut t erly broken, like t o die, Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {60}

;;,,6,53$/$0('( his wit s dot h rally, Nursing his wound beside a lake Wit hin an admirable valley, Whose
walls t heir t hirst on heaven slake, And in t he moonlight myst ical Their count less spears of silver shake. Thus
reasons he: "In each and all Fyt t es of t his quest t he quarry’s t rack Is wondrous geomet rical. In spire and whorl
t wist s out and back The hart wit h fair symmet ric line. And lo! t he grain of wit I lack - This Beast is Mast er of
Design. So st udying each t wist ed print In t his mirific mind of mine, My heart may happen on a hint ." Thus as
t he seeker aft er gold Eagerly chases grain or glint , {61}
The knight at last wins t o behold The f ull concept ion. Breat hless-blue The fair lake’s mirror cryst al-cold
Wherein he gazes, keen t o view The vast Design t herein, t o chase The Beast t o his last avenue. t hen - O t hou
gosling scant of grace! The dream breaks, and Sir Palamede Wakes t o t he glass of his fool’s face! "Ah,
’sdeat h!" (quod he), "by t hought and deed This brut e f or ever mocket h me. The lance is made a broken reed,
The brain is but a barren t ree - For all t he beaut iful Design Is but mine own geomet ry!" Wit h t hat his wrat h
brake out like wine. He plunged his body in, and shat t ered The whole delusion asinine. All t he false wat er-
nymphs t hat f lat t ered He killed wit h his resounding curse - O fool of God! as if it mat t ered! So, not hing
bet t er, rat her worse, Out of t he blue bliss of t he pool Came dripping t hat invet erat e fool! {62}

;;,,,12: st ill he holdet h argument : "So grand a Beast must house him well; hence, now beseemet h me
frequent Cat hedral, palace, cit adel." So, riding fast among t he flowers Far off, a Got hic spire he spies, That
like a gladiat or t owers It s spear-sharp splendour t o t he skies. The people clust er round, acclaim: "Sir Knight ,
good knight , t hy quest is won. Here dwells t he Beast in orient flame, Spring-sweet , and swift er t han t he sun!"
Sir Palamede t he Saracen Spurs t o t he shrine, afire t o win The end; and all t he urgent men Throng wit h him
eloquent ly in. Sir Palamede his vizor drops; He lays his loyal lance in rest ; He drives t he rowels home - he
st ops! Faugh! but a black-mout hed money-chest ! {63}
He t urns - t he friendly folk are gone, gone wit h his sumpt er-mules and t rain Beyond t he infinit e horizon Of all
he hopes t o see again! His brain befooled, his pocket picked - How t he Beast cachinnat ed t hen, Far from t hat
dolef ul derelict Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {64}

;;,921(t hing at least " (quot h Palamede), "Beyond disput e my soul can see: This Quest ing Beast t hat mocks
my need Dwellet h in deep obscurit y." So delvet h he a darksome hole Wit hin t he bowels of Et na dense,
Closing t he harbour of his soul To all t he pirat e-ships of sense. And now t he quest ing of t he Beast Rolls in his
very self, and high Leaps his while heart in fiery f east On t he expect ed ecst asy. But echoing from t he cent ral
roar Reverberat es many a mournf ul moan, And shapes more myst ic t han before Baffle it s formless monot one!
Ah! mocks him many a myriad vision, Warring wit hin him mast erless, Turning devot ion t o derision, Beat it ude
t o beast liness. {65}
They swarm, t hey grow, t hey mult iply; The St rong knight ’s brain goes all a-swim, Paced by t hat maddening
minst relsy, Those dog-like demons hunt ing him. The last bar breaks; t he st eel will snaps; The black hordes
riot in his brain; A t housand t hreat ening t hunder-claps Smit e him - insane - insane - insane! His muscles roar
wit h senseless rage; The pale knight st aggers, deat hly sick; Reels t o t he light t hat sorry sage, Sir Palamede
t he Lunat ick. {66}
;;9$6$9$*( sea wit hout a sail, Grey gulphs and green a-glit t ering, Rare snow t hat float s - a vest al veil
Upon t he forehead of t he spring. Here in a plunging galleon Sir Palamede, a list less drone, Drift s desperat ely
on - and on - And on - wit h heart and eyes of st one. The deep-scarred brain of him is healed Wit h wind and
sea and st ar and sun, The assoiling grace t hat God revealed For gree and bount eous benison. Ah! st ill he
t rust s t he recreant brain, Thrown in a t housand t ourney-j ust s; St ill he raves on in reason-st rain Wit h
senseless "ought s" and fat uous "must s." "All t he delusions" (arguet h The ass), "all uproars, surely rise From
t hat curst Me whose name is Deat h, Whereas t he Quest ing beast belies {67}
The Me wit h Thou; t hen swift t he quest To slay t he Me should hook t he Thou." Wit h t hat he crossed him,
brow and breast , And f lung his body from t he prow. An end? Alas! on silver sand Open his eyes; t he surf-rings
roar. What snort s t here, swimming from t he land? The Beast t hat brought him t o t he shore! "O Beast !" quot h
purple Palamede, "A monst er st range as Thou am I. I could not live before, indeed; And not I cannot even
die! Who chose me, of t he Table Round By miracle acclaimed t he chief? Here, wat erlogged and muscle-
bound, Marooned upon a coral reef!" {68}

;;9,6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Hat h got t en him a swift canoe, Paddled by st alwart Sout h Sea men. They
cleave t he oily breast s of blue, St raining t oward t he west ering disk Of t he t all sun; t hey bat t le t hrough Those
weary days; t he wind is brisk; The st ars are clear; t he moon is high. Now, even as a whit e basilisk That
slayet h all men wit h his eye, St ands up before t hem t apering The cone of speechless sanct it y. Up, up it s
slopes t he pilgrims swing, Chant ing t heir pagan gramarye Unt o t he dread volcano-king. "Now, t hen, by
Goddes reed!" quod he, "Behold t he secret of my quest In t his far-famed st abilit y! {69}
For all t hese Paynim knight s may rest In t he black bliss t hey st ruggle t o." But from t he eart h’s full-flowered
breast Brake t he blind roar of eart hquake t hrough, Tearing t he belly of it s mot her, Engulphing all t hat
heat hen crew, That cried and cursed on one anot her. Aghast he st andet h, Palamede! For t winned wit h
Eart hquake laughs her brot her The Quest ing Beast . As Goddes reed Sweat s blood for sin, so now t he heart Of
t he good knight begins t o bleed. Of all t he ruinous shaft s t hat dart Wit hin his liver, t his hat h plied The most
int olerable smart . "By Goddes wounds!" t he good knight cried, "What is t his quest , grown daily daft er, Where
not hing - not hing - may abide? West ward!" They fly, but rolling aft er Echoes t he Beast ’s unsat isfied And
inext inguishable laught er! {70}

;;9,,6,53$/$0('( goes aching on (Pox of despair’s dread int erdict !) Aye t o t he west ern horizon, St ill
medit at ing, sharp and st rict , Upon t he changes of t he eart h, It s t owers and t emples derelict , The ready ruin
of it s mirt h, The f lowers, t he fruit s, t he leaves t hat fall, The j oy of life, it s growing girt h - And not hing as t he
end of all. Yea, even as t he Yang-t ze rolled It s rapids past him, so t he wall Of t hings brake down; his eyes
behold The might y Beast serenely couched Upon it s breast of burnished gold. "Ah! by Christ ’s blood!" (his soul
avouched), "Not hing but change (but change!) abides. Deat h lurks, a leopard curled and crouched, {71}
In all t he seasons and t he t ides. But ah! t he more it changed and changed" - (The good knight laughed t o split
his sides!) "What ? Is t he soul of t hings deranged? The more it changed, and rippled t hrough It s changes, and
st ill changed, and changed, The liker t o it self it grew. Bear me," he cried, "t o purge my bile To t he old land
of Hormakhu, That I may sit and curse awhile At all t hese follies fond t hat pen My quest about - on, on t o
Nile! Tread t enderly, my merry men! For not hing is so void and vile As Palamede t he Saracen." {72}

;;9,,,6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Hat h clad him in a sable robe; Hat h curses, writ by holy men From all t he
gardens of t he globe. He st andet h at an alt ar-st one; The blood drips from t he slain babe’s t hroat ; His chant
rolls in a magick moan; His head bows t o t he crown?d goat . His wand makes curves and spires in air; The
smoke of incense curls and quivers; His eyes fix in a glass-cold st are: The land of Egypt rocks and shivers! "Lo!
by t hy Gods, O God, I vow To burn t he aut hent ic bones and blood Of curst Osiris even now To t he dark Nile’s
upsurging flood! I cast t hee down, oh crowned and t hroned! To black Amennt i’s void profane. Unt il mine
anger be at oned Thou shalt not ever rise again." {73}
Wit h firm red lips and square black beard, Osiris in his st rengt h appeared. He made t he sign t hat savet h men
On Palamede t he Saracen. ’Hat h hushed his conj urat ion grim: The curse comes back t o sleep wit h him. ’Hat h
fallen himself t o t hat profane Whence none might ever rise again. Dread t ort ure racks him; all his bones Get
voice t o ut t er fort h his groans. The very poison of his blood Joins in t hat cry’s soul-shaking flood. For many a
chiliad count ed well His soul st ayed in it s proper Hell. Then, when Sir Palamedes came Back t o himself , t he
shrine was dark. Cold was t he incense, dead t he flame; The slain babe lay t here black and st ark. What of t he
Beast ? What of t he quest ? More blind t he quest , t he Beast more dim. Even now it s laught er is suppressed,
While his own demons mock at him! {74}
O t hou most desperat e dupe t hat Hell’s Malice can make of mort al men! Meddle no more wit h magick spells,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {75}

;;,;+$ but t he good knight , st riding fort h From Set ’s abominable shrine, Pursues t he quest wit h bit t er
wrat h, So t hat his words flow out like wine. And lo! t he soul t hat hearet h t hem Is st raight way healed of
suffering. His fame runs t hrough t he land of Khem: They f lock, t he peasant and t he king. There he works
many a miracle: The blind see, and t he cripples walk; Lepers grow clean; sick folk grow well; The deaf men
hear, t he dumb men t alk. He cast s out devils wit h a word; Circlet h his wand, and dead men rise. No such a
wonder hat h been heard Since Christ our God’s sweet sacrifice. "Now, by t he glad blood of our Lord!" Quot h
Palamede, "my heart is light . I am t he chosen harpsichord Whereon God playet h; t he perfect knight , {76}
The saint of Mary" - t here he st ayed, For out of Memnon’s singing st one So fierce a quest ing barked and
brayed, It t urned his laught er t o a groan. His vow forgot , his t ask undone, His soul whipped in God’s bit t er
school! (He moaned a might y malison!) The perfect knight ? The perfect fool! "Now, by God’s wounds!" quot h
he, "my st rengt h Is burnt out t o a pest of pains. Let me fling off my curse at lengt h In old Chaldea’s st arry
plains! Thou bless?d Jesus, foully nailed Unt o t he cruel Calvary t ree, Look on my soul’s poor fort assailed By
all t he host s of devilry! Is t here no medicine but deat h That shall avail me in my place, That I may know t he
Beaut eous Breat h And t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace? Keep Thou yet firm t his t rembling leaf My soul, dear
God Who died for men; Yea! for t hat sinner-soul t he chief, Sir Palamede t he Saracen!" {77}

;;;67$55(' is t he blackness of t he sky; Wide is t he sweep of t he cold plain Where good Sir Palamede dot h
lie, Keen on t he Beast -slot once again. All day he rode; all night he lay Wit h eyes wide open t o t he st ars,
Seeking in many a secret way The key t o unlock his prison bars. Beneat h him, hark! t he marvel sounds! The
Beast t hat quest et h horribly. As if a t hirt y couple hounds Are in his belly quest et h he. Beneat h him? Hearet h
he aright ? He leaps t o’sfeet - a wonder shews: St eep dips a st airway from t he light To what obscurit y God
knows. St ill never a t remor shakes his soul (God praise t hee, knight of adamant !); He plungers t o t hat
gruesome goal Firm as an old bull-elephant ! {78}
The broad st air winds; he f ollows it ; Dark is t he way; t he air is blind; Black, black t he blackness of t he pit ,
The light long blot t ed out behind! His sword sweeps out ; his keen glance peers For some shape glimmering
t hrough t he gloom: Naught , naught in all t hat void appears; More st ill, more silent t han t he t omb! Ye now t he
good knight is aware Of some black force, of some dread t hrone, Wait ing beneat h t hat awful st air, Beneat h
t hat pit of slippery st one. Yea! t hough he sees not anyt hing, Nor hears, his subt le sense is ’ware That ,
lackeyed by t he devil-king, The Beast - t he Quest ing Beast - is t here! So t hough his heart beat s close wit h
fear, Though horror grips his t hroat , he goes, Goes on t o meet it , spear t o spear, As good knight should, t o
face his foes. Nay! but t he end is come. Black eart h Belches t hat peerless Paladin Up from her gulphs -
unt imely birt h! - Her horror could not hold him in! {79}
Whit e as a corpse, t he hero hails The dawn, t hat night of fear st ill shaking His body. All deat h’s doubt assails
Him. Was it sleep or was it waking? "By God, I care not , I!" (quod he). "Or wake or sleep, or live or dead, I will
pursue t his myst ery. So help me Grace of Godlihead!" Ay! wit h t hy wast ed limbs pursue That subt le Beast
home t o his den! Who know but t hou mayst win at hrough, Sir Palamede t he Saracen? {80}

;;;,)520 God’s sweet air Sir Palamede Hat h come unt o a demon bog, A cit y where but rat s may breed In
sewer-st ench and fet id fog. Wit hin it s heart pale phant oms crawl. Breat hless wit h foolish hast e t hey j og And
j ost le, all for naught ! They scrawl Vain t hings all night t hat t hey disown Ere day. They call and bawl and
squall Hoarse cries; t hey moan, t hey groan. A st one Hat h bet t er sense! And t hese among A cabbage-headed
god t hey own, Wit h wandering eye and j abbering t ongue. He, rot t ing in t hat grimy sewer And charnel-house
of deat h and dung, Shrieks: "How t he air is sweet and pure! Give me t he ent rails of a frog And I will t each
t hee! Lo! t he lure {81}
Of light ! How lucent is t he fog! How noble is my cabbage-head! How sweet ly f ragrant is t he bog! "God’s
wounds!" (Sir Palamedes said), "What have I done t o earn t his port ion? Must I, t he clean knight born and bred,
Sup wit h t his filt hy t oad-abort ion?" Nat hless he st ayed wit h him awhile, Lest by disdain his ment ion t orsion
Slip back, or miss t he serene smile Should crown his quest ; for (as onesait h) The unknown may lurk wit hin t he
vile. So he who sought t he Beaut eous Breat h, Desired t he Goodly Gift of Grace, Went equal int o life and
deat h. But oh! t he foulness of his face! Not here was anyt hing of wort h; He t urned his back upon t he place,
Sought t he blue sky and t he green eart h, Ay! and t he lust ral sea t o cleanse That filt h t hat st ank about his
girt h, {82}
The sores and scabs, t he wart s and wens, The nameless vermin he had gat hered In t hose insufferable dens,
The foul diseases he had fat hered. So now t he quest slips from his brain: "First (Christ !) let me be clean
again!" {83}

;;;,,+$ cries t he knight , "may pat ient t oil Of brain dissolve t his cruel coil! In Afric t hey t hat chase t he
ost rich Clot he t hem wit h feat hers, subt ly foil It s vigilance, come close, t hen dart It s deat h upon it . Brave my
heart ! Do t hus!" And so t he knight disguises Himself , on hands and knees dot h st art His hunt , goes quest ing up
and down. So in t he fields t he peasant clown Flies, shrieking, f rom t he dreadf ul figure. But when he came t o
any t own They caged him f or a lunat ic. Quod he: "Would God I had t he t rick! The beast escaped from my
devices; I will t he same. The bars are t hick, But I am st rong." He wrenched in vain; Then - what is t his? What
wild, sharp st rain Smit es on t he air? The prison smashes. Hark! ’t is t he Quest ing Beast again! {84}
Then as he rushes fort h t he not e Roars from t hat Beast ’s malignant t hroat Wit h laught er, laught er, laught er,
laught er! The wit s of Palamedes float In ecst asy of shame and rage. "O Thou!" exclaims t he baffled sage;
"How should I mat ch Thee? Yet , I will so, Though Doomisday devour t he Age. Weeping, and beat ing on his
breast , Gnashing his t eet h, he st ill confessed The might of t he dread oat h t hat bound him: He would not yet
give up t he quest . "Nay! while I am," quot h he, "t hough Hell Engulph me, t hough God mock me well, I follow
as I sware; I follow, Though it be unat t ainable. Nay, more! Because I may not win, Is’t wort h man’s work t o
ent er in! The Infinit e wit h might y passion Hat h caught my spirit in a gin. Come! since I may not imit at e The
Beast , at least I work and wait . We shall discover soon or lat e Which is t he mast er - I or Fat e!" {85}

;;;,,,6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Hat h passed unt o t he t ideless sea, That t he keen whisper of t he wind May
bring him t hat which never men Knew - on t he quest , t he quest , rides he! So long t o seek, so far t o find! So
weary was t he knight , his limbs Were slack as new-slain dove’s; his knees No longer gripped t he charger rude.
List less, he aches; his purpose swims Exhaust ed in t he oily seas Of laxit y and lassit ude. The soul subsides; it s
serious mot ion St ill t hrobs; by habit , not by will. And all his lust t o win t he quest Is but a passive-mild
devot ion. (Ay! soon t he blood shall run right chill - And is not deat h t he Lord of Rest ?) There as he basks upon
t he cliff He yearns t oward t he Beast ; his eyes Are moist wit h love; his lips are fain {86}
To breat he fond prayers; and (marry!) if Man’s soul were measured by his sighs He need not linger t o at t ain.
Nay! while t he Beast squat s t here, above Him, smiling on him; as he vows Wonderful deeds and f ruit less
flowers, He grows so maudlin in his love That even t he knaves of his own house Mock at him in t heir merry
hours. "God’s deat h!" raged Palamede, not wrot h But irrit at ed, "laugh ye so? Am I a j ape for scullions?" His
curse came in a flaky frot h. He seized a club, wit h blow on blow Breaking t he knave’s unreverent sconce!
"Thou mock t he Quest ing Beast I chase, The Quest ing Beast I love? ’Od’s wounds!" Then sudden f rom t he slave
t here brake A cachinnat ion scant of grace, As if a t hirt y couple hounds Were in his belly! Knight , awake! Ah!
well he woke! His love an scorn Grapple in deat h-t hroe at his t hroat . "Lead me away" (quot h he), "my men!
Woe, woe is me was ever born So blind a bat , so gross a goat , As Palamede t he Saracen!" {87}

;;;,96,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Hat h hid him in an hermit ’s cell Upon an island in t he fen Of t hat lone land
where Druids dwell. There came an eagle f rom t he height And bade him mount . From dale t o dell They sank
and soared. Last t o t he light Of t he great sun himself t hey f lew, Piercing t he borders of t he night , Passing t he
irremeable blue. Far int o space beyond t he st ars At last t hey came. And t here he knew All t he blind
reasonable bars Broken, and all t he emot ions st illed, And all t he st ains and all t he scars Left him; sop like a
child he t hrilled Wit h ut most knowledge; all his soul, Wit h perfect sense and sight fulfilled, {88}
Touched t he ext reme, t he giant goal! Yea! all t hings in t hat hour t ranscended, All power in his sublime
cont rol, All f elt , all t hought , all comprehended - "How is it , t hen, t he quest " (he sait h) "Is not - at last ! -
achieved and ended? Why t ast e I not t he Bount eous Breat h, Receive t he Goodly Gift of Grace? Now, kind
king-eagle (by God’s deat h!), Rest ore me t o mine ancient place! I am advant aged not hing t hen!" Then
swooped he from t he Byss of Space, And set t he knight amid t he fen. "God!" quot h Sir Palamede, "t hat I Who
have won nine should fail at t en! I set my all upon t he die: There is no furt her t rick t o t ry. Call t hrice
accurs?d above men Sir Palamede t he Saracen!" {89}

;;;9<($ quot h t he knight , "I rede t he spell. This Beast is t he Unknowable. I seek in Heaven, I seek in
Hell; Ever he mocks me. Yet , met hinks, I have t he riddle of t he Sphinx. For were I keener t han t he lynx I
should not see wit hin my mind One t hought t hat is not in it s kind In soot h That Beast t hat lurks behind: And
in my quest his quest ing seems The aut hent ic echo of my dreams, The proper t hesis of my t hemes! I know
him? St ill he answers: No! I know him not ? Maybe - and lo! He is t he one sole t hing I know! Nay! who knows
not is different From him t hat knows. Then be cont ent ; Thou canst not alt er t he event ! {90}
Ah! what conclusion subt ly draws From out t his chaos of mad laws? An I, t he eff ect , as I, t he cause? Nay, t he
brain reels beneat h it s swell Of pompous t hought s. Enough t o t ell That He is known Unknowable!" Thus did
t hat knight ly Saracen In Cant abrig’s miasmal fen Lect ure t o many learned men. So clamorous was t heir
applause - "His mind" (said t hey) "is free of flaws: The Veil of God is t hin as gauze!" - That almost t hey had
dulled or drowned The laught er (in it s belly bound) Of t hat dread Beast he had not found. Nat hless - alt hough
he would away - They forced t he lack-luck knight t o st ay And lect ure many a weary day. Verily, almost he
had caught The infect ion of t heir cost ive t hought , And brought his loyal quest t o naught . It was by night t hat
Palamede Ran from t hat mildewed, mouldy breed, Mot h-eat hen dullards run t o seed! {91} How weak Sir
Palamedes grows! We hear no more of bout s and blows! His weapons are his t en good t oes! He t hat was
Art hur’s peer, good knight Proven in many a fought en fight , Flees like a felon in t he night ! Ay! t his t hy quest
is past t he ken Of t hee and of all mort al men, Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {92}

;;;9,2)7, as Sir Palamedes went Upon t he quest , he was aware Of some vast shadow subt ly bent Wit h his
own shadow in t he air. It had no shape, no voice had it Wherewit h t o daunt t he eye or ear; Yet all t he horror
of t he pit Clad it wit h all t he arms of fear. Moreover, t hough he sought t o scan Some feat ure, t hough he
list ened long, No shape of God or fiend or man, No whisper, groan, shriek, scream, or song Gave him t o know
it . Now it chanced One day Sir Palamedes rode Through a great wood whose leafage danced In t he t hin
sunlight as it flowed From heaven. He halt ed in a glade, Bade his horse crop t he t ender grass; Put off his
armour, soft ly laid Himself t o sleep t ill noon should pass. {93}
He woke. Before him st ands and grins A mot ley hunchback. "Knave!" quot h he, "Hast seen t he Beast ? The
quest t hat wins The loft iest prize of chivalry?" Sir Knight ," he answers, "hast t hou seen Aught of t hat Beast ?
How knowest t hou, t hen, That it is ever or hat h been, Sir Palamede t he Saracen?" Sir Palamede was well
awake. "Nay! I deliberat e deep and long, Yet find no answer fit t o make To t hee. The weak beat s down t he
st rong; The fool’s cap shames t he helm. But t hou! I know t hee for t he shade t hat haunt s My way, set s shame
upon my brow, My purpose dims, my courage daunt s. Then, since t he t hinker must be dumb, At least t he
knight may knight ly act : The wisest monk in Christ endom May have his skull broke by a fact ." Wit h t hat , as a
snake st rikes, his sword Leapt burning t o t he burning blue; And fell, one swift , assured award, St abbing t hat
hunchback t hrough and t hrough. {94}
St raight he dissolved, a voiceless shade. "Or scot ched or slain," t he knight said t hen, "What odds? Keep bright
and sharp t hy blade, Sir Palamede t he Saracen!" {95}

;;;9,,6,53$/$0('( is sick t o deat h! The st aring eyen, t he haggard face! God grant t o him t he Beaut eous
breat h! god send t he Goodly Gift of Grace! There is a whit e cave by t he sea Wherein t he knight is hid away.
Just ere t he night falls, spiet h he The sun’s last shaft flicker ast ray. All day is dark. There, t here he mourns
His wast ed years, his purpose faint . A million whips, a million scorns Make t he knight flinch, and st ain t he
saint . For now! what hat h he left ? He feeds On limpet s and wild root s. What odds? There is no need a mort al
needs Who hat h loosed man’s hope t o grasp at God’s! How his head swims! At night what st irs Above t he faint
wash of t he t ide, And rare sea-birds whose winging whirrs About t he cliffs? Now good bet ide! {96}
God save t hee, woeful Palamede! The quest ing of t he Beast is loud Wit hin t hy ear. By Goddes reed, t hou has
won t he t ilt from all t he crowd! Wit hin t hy proper bowels it sounds Might y and musical at need, As if a t hirt y
couple hounds Quest ed wit hin t hee, Palamede! Now, t hen, he grasps t he desperat e t rut h He hat h t oiled
t hese many years t o see, Hat h wast ed st rengt h, hat h wast ed yout h --0- He was t he Beast ; t he Beast was he!
He rises from t he cave of deat h, Runs t o t he sea wit h shining face To know at last t he Bount eous Breat h, To
t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace. Ah! Palamede, t hou has mist ook! Thou art t he but t of all confusion! Not t o be
writ t en in my book Is t his most drast ic disillusion! so weak and ill was he, I doubt if he might hear t he royal
feast Of laught er t hat came rolling out Afar from t hat elusive Beast . {97}
Yet , t hose whit e lips were snapped, like st eel Upon t he ankles of a slave! That body broken on t he wheel Of
t ime suppressed t he groan it gave! "Not t here, not here, my quest !" he cried. "Not t hus! Not now! do how and
when Mat t er? I am, and I abide, Sir Palamede t he Saracen!" {98}

;;;9,,,6,53$/$0('( of great renown rode t hrough t he land upon t he quest , His sword loose and his vizor
down, His buckler braced, his lance in rest . Now, t hen, God save t hee, Palamede! Who courset h yonder on
t he field? Those silver arms, t hat sable st eed, The sun and rose upon his shield? The st range knight spurs t o
him. disdain Curls t hat proud lip as he uplift s His vizor. "Come, an end! In vain, Sir Fox, t hy t housand t urns
and shift s!" Sir Palamede was whit e wit h fear. Lord Christ ! t hose f eat ures were his own; His own t hat voice so
icy clear That cut s him, cut s him t o t he bone. "False knight ! false knight !" t he st ranger cried. "Thou bast ard
dog, Sir Palamede? I am t he good knight fain t o ride Upon t he Quest ing Beast at need. {99}
Thief of my arms, my crest , my quest , My name, now meet est t hou t hy shame. See, wit h t his whip I lash t hee
back, Back t o t he kennel whence t here came So false a hound." "Good knight , in soot h," Answered Sir
Palamede, "not I Presume t o asset t he idlest t rut h; And here, by t his good ear and eye, I grant t hou art Sir
Palamede. But - t ry t he first and final t est If t hou or I be he. Take heed!" He backed his horse, covered his
breast , Drove his spurs home, and rode upon That knight . His lance-head fairly st ruck The barred st rengt h of
his morion, And rolled t he st ranger in t he muck. "Now, by God’s deat h!" quot h Palamede, His sword at work,
"I will not leave So much of t hee as God might f eed His sparrows wit h. As I believe The sweet Christ ’s mercy
shall avail, so will I not have aught for t hee; Since every bone of t hee may rail Against me, crying t reachery.
{100}
Thou hast lied. I am t he chosen knight To slay t he Quest ing beast for men; I am t he loyal son of light , Sir
Palamede t he Saracen! Thou wast t he subt lest fiend t hat yet hat h crossed my pat h. t o say t hee nay I dare
not , but my sword is wet Wit h t hy knave’s blood, and wit h t hy clay fouled! Dost t hou t hink t o resurrect ? O
sweet Lord Christ t hat savest men! From all such fiends do t hou prot ect Me, Palamede t he Saracen!" {101}

;;;,;*5((1 and Grecian is t he valley, Shepherd lads and shepherd lasses Dancing in a ring Merrily and
musically. How t heir happiness surpasses The mere t hrill of spring! "Come" (t hey cry), "Sir Knight , put by All
t hat weight of shining armour! Here’s a posy, here’s a garland, t here’s a chain of daisies! Here’s a charmer!
There’s a charmer! Praise t he God t hat crazes men, t he God t hat raises All our lives t oe ecst asy!" Sir
Palamedes was t oo wise To mock t heir gent le wooing; He smiles int o t heir sparkling eyes While t hey his
armour are undoing. "For who" (quot h he) "may say t hat t his Is not t he myst ery I miss?" Soon he is gat hered in
t he dance, And smot hered in t he flowers. {102}
A boy’s laugh and a maiden’s glance Are sweet as paramours! St ay! is t hee naught some want on wight May do
t o excit e t he glamoured knight ? Yea! t he song t akes a sea-wild swell; The dance moves in a myst ic web;
St range light s abound and t errible; The life t hat flowed is out at ebb. The light s are gone; t he night is come;
The lads and lasses sink, await ing Some climax - oh, how t ense and dumb The expect ant hush int oxicat ing!
Hush! t he heart ’s beat ! Across t he moor Some dreadful god rides fast , be sure! t he list ening Palamede bit es
t hrough his t hin whit e lips - what hoofs are t hose? Are t hey t he Quest ? How st ill and blue The sky is! Hush -
God knows - God knows! Then on a sudden in t he midst of t hem is a swart god, f rom hoof t o girdle a goat ,
Upon his brow t he t welve-st ar diadem And t he King’s Collar fast ened on t his t hroat . Thrill upon t hrill courset h
t hrough Palamede. Life, live, pure life is bubbling in his blood. All yout h comes back, all st rengt h, all you
indeed Flaming wit hin t hat t hrobbing spirit -flood! {103
Yet was his heart immeasurably sad, For t hat no quest ing in his ear he had. Nay! he saw all. He saw t he Curse
That wrapped in ruin t he World primaeval. He saw t he unborn Universe, And all it s gods coeval. He saw, and
was, all t hings at once In Him t hat is; he was t he st ars, The moons, t he met eors, t he suns, All in one net of
t riune bars; Inext ricably one, inevit ably one, Immeasurable, immut able, immense Beyond all t he wonder t hat
his soul had won By sense, in spit e of sense, and beyond sense. "Praise God!" quot h Palamede, "by t his I
at t ain t he ut t ermost of bliss. ... God’s wounds! but t hat I never sought . The Quest ing Beast I sware t o at t ain
And all t his miracle is naught . Off on my t ravels once again! I keep my yout h regained t o foil Old Time t hat
t ook me in his t oil. I keep my st rengt h regained t o chase The beast t hat mocks me now as t hen Dear Christ ! I
pray Thee of Thy grace Take pit y on t he forlorn case Of Palamede t he Saracen!" {104}

;/6,53$/$0('( t he Saracen Hat h see t he All; his mind is set To pass beyond t hat great Amen. Far hat h he
wandered; st ill t o fret His soul against t hat Soul. He breaches The rhododendron forest -net , His body bloody
wit h it s leeches. St ernly he t ravellet h t he crest Of a great mount ain, far t hat reaches Toward t he King-
snows; t he rains molest The knight , whit e wast es updriven of wind In sheet s, in t orrent s, fiend-possessed, Up
from t he st eaming plains of Ind. They cut his flesh, t hey chill his bones: Yet he f eels naught ; his mind is
pinned To t hat one point where all t he t hrones Join t o one lion-head of rock, Towering above all crest s and
cones {105}
That crouch like j ackals. St ress and shock Move Palamede no more. Like fat e He moves wit h silent speed.
They flock, The Gods, t o wat ch him. Now abat e His pulses; he t hreads t hrough t he vale, And t urns him t o t he
might y gat e, The glacier. Oh, t he flowers t hat scale t hose sun-kissed height s! The snows t hat crown The
quart s ravines! The clouds t hat veil The awful slopes! Dear God! look down And see t his pet t y man move on.
Relent less as Thine own renown, Careless of praise or orison, Simply det ermined. Wilt t hou launch (t his
knight ’s presumpt uous head upon) The devast at ing avalancehe? He knows t oo much, and cares t oo lit t le! His
wound is more t han Deat h can st aunch. He can avoid, t hough by one t it t le, Thy surest shaft ! And now t he
knight , Breast ing t he crags, may laugh and whit t le Away t he demon-club whose might Threat ened him. Now
he leaves t he spur; And eager, wit h a boy’s delight , {106}
Treads t he impending glacier. Now, now he st rikes t he st eep black ice That leads t o t he last neck. By Her
That bore t he lord, by what device May he pass t here? Yet st ill he moves, Ardent and st eady, as if t he price
Of deat h were less t han lif e approves, As if on eagles’ wings he mount ed, Or as on angels’ wings - or love’s!
So, all t he j ourney he discount ed, Holding t he goal. Supreme he st ood Upon t he summit ; dreams uncount ed,
Worlds of sublime beat it ude! He passed beyond. The All he hat h t ouched, And dropped t o vile desuet ude.
What lay beyond? What st ar unsmut ched By being? His poor fingers fumble, And all t he Naught t heir ardour
clut ched, Like all t he rest , begins t o crumble. Where is t he Beast ? His bliss exceeded All t hat bards sing of or
priest s mumble; No man, no God, hat h known what he did. Only t his baulked him - t hat he lacked Exact ly t he
one t hing he needed. {107}
"Faugh!" cried t he knight . "Thought , word, and act Confirm me. I have proved t he quest Impossible. I break
t he pact . Back t o t he gilded halls, confessed A recreant ! Achieved or not , This t ask hat h earned a foison -
rest . In Caerlon and Camelot Let me embrace my fellow-men! To buss t he wenches, pass t he pot , Is now t he
enviable lot Of Palamede t he Saracen!" {108}

;/,6,5$57+85 sit s again at feast Wit hin t he high and holy hall Of Camelot . From West t o East The Table
Round hat h burst t he t hrall Of Paynimrie. The goodliest gree Sit s on t he gay knight s, one and all; Till Art hur:
"Of your chivalry, Knight s, let us drink t he happiness Of t he one knight we lack" (quot h he); "For surely in
some sore dist ress May be Sir Palamede." Then t hey Rose as one man in glad liesse To honour t hat great
healt h. "god’s way Is not as man’s" (quot h Lancelot ). "Yet , may god send him back t his day, His quest achieve,
t o Camelot !" "Amen!" t hey cried, and raised t he bowl; When - t he wind rose, a blast as hot {109}
As t he simoom, and fort h did roll A sudden t hunder. St ill t hey st ood. Then came a bugle-blast . The soul Of
each knight st irred. Wit h vigour rude, The blast t ore down t he t apest ry That hid t he door. All ashen-hued The
knight s laid hand t o sword. But he (Sir Palamedes) in t he gap Was found - God knowet h - bit t erly Weeping.
Cried Art hur: "St range t he hap! My knight , my dearest knight , my friend! What gift had Fort une in her lap
Like t hee? Em,brace me!" "Rat her end Your garment s, if you love me, sire!" (Quod he). "I am come unt o t he
end. All mine int ent and my desire, My quest , mine oat h - all, all is done. Burn t hem wit h me in fat al fire! Fir
I have failed. All ways, each one I st rove in, mocked me. If I quailed Or shirked, God knows. I have not won:
That and no more I know. I failed." King Art hur fell a-weeping. Then Merlin uprose, his face unveiled; {110}
Thrice cried he pit eously t hen Upon our Lord. Then shook t his head Sir Palamede t he Saracen, As knowing
not hing might best ead, When lo! t here rose a monst er moan, A hugeous cry, a quest ing dread, As if (God’s
deat h!) t here coursed alone The Beast , wit hin whose belly sounds That marvellous music monot one As if a
t hirt y couple hounds Quest ed wit hin him. Now, by Christ And by His pit iful five wounds! - Even as a lover t o
his t ryst , That Beast came quest ing in t he hall, One f lame of gold and amet hyst , Bodily seen t hen of t hem
all. t hen came he t o Sir Palamede, Nest ling t o him, as sweet and small As a young babe clings at it s need To
t he whit e bosom of it s mot her, As Christ clung t o t he gibbet -reed! Then every knight t urned t o his brot her,
Sobbing and signing for great gladness; And, as t hey looked on one anot her, {111}
Surely t here st ole a subt le madness Int o t heir veins, more st rong t han deat h: For all t he root s of sin and
sadness Were plucked. As a flower perishet h, So all sin died. And in t hat place All t hey did know t he
Beaut eous Breat h And t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace. Then fell t he night . Above t he baying Of t he great
Beast , t hat was t he bass To all t he harps of Heaven a-playing, There came a solemn voice (not one But was
upon his knees in praying And glorifying God). The Son Of God Himself - men t hought - spoke t hen. "Arise!
brave soldier, t hou hast won The quest not given t o mort al men. Arise! Sir Palamede Adept , Christ ian, and no
more Saracen! On wake or sleeping, wise, inept , St ill t hou didst seek. Those foolish ways On which t hy folly
st umbled, leapt , All led t o t he one goal. Now praise Thy Lord hat He hat brought t hee t hrough To win t he
quest !" The good knight lays {112}
His hand upon t he Beast . Then blew Each angel on his t rumpet , t hen All Heaven resounded t hat it knew Sir
Palamede t he Saracen Was mast er! Through t he domes of deat h, Through all t he might y realms of men And
spirit s breat hed t he Beaut eous Breat h: They t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace. - Now ’t is t he chronicler t hat
sait h: Our Saviour grant in lit t le space That also I, even I, be blest Thus, t hough so evil is my case - Let t hem
t hat read my rime at t est The same sweet unct ion in my pen - That writ es in pure blood of my breast ; For
t hat I figure unt o men The st ory of my proper quest As t hine, first East ern in t he West , Sir Palamede t he
Saracen! {113}

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,

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Rode by t he marge of many a sea:
He had slain a t housand evil men
And set a t housand ladies f ree.

Armed t o t he t eet h, t he glit t ering kinght

Galloped along t he sounding shore,
His silver arms one lake of light ,
Their clash one symphony of war.

How st ill t he blue enamoured sea

Lay in t he blaze of Syria’s noon!
The et ernal roll et ernally
Beat out it s monot onic t une.

Sir Palamede t he Saracen

A dreadful vision here espied,
A sight abhorred of gods and men,
Bet ween t he limit of t he t ide.
The dead man’s t ongue was t orn away;
The dead man’s t hroat was slit across;
There f lapped upon t he put rid prey
A carrion, screaming albat ross. {3}

So halt ed he his horse, and bent

To cat ch remembrance from t he eyes
That st ared t o God, whose ardour sent
His radiance from t he rut hless skies.

Then like a st at ue st ill he sat e;

Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle st irred;
While round t hem f lapped insat iat e
The f ell, abominable bird.

But t he coldest horror drave t he light

From knight ly eyes. How pale t hy bloom,
Thy blood, O brow whereon t hat night
Sit s like a serpent on a t omb!

For Palamede t hose eyes beheld

The iron image of his own;
On t hose dead brows a fat e he spelled
To st rike a Gorgon int o st one.

H e knew his fat her. St ill he sat e,

Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle st irred;
While round t hem f lapped insat iat e
The f ell, abominable bird.

The knight approves t he j ust ice done,

And pays wit h t hat his rowels’ debt ;
While yet t he forehead of t he son
St ands beaded wit h an icy sweat . {4}

God’s angel, st anding sinist er,

Unfurls t his scroll - a sable st ain:
Who wins t he spur shall ply t he spur
Upon his proper heart and brain.

He gave t he sign of malison

On t rait or knight s and perj ured men;
And ever by t he sea rode on
Sir Palamede t he Saracen.
 ,,

%EHOLD! Arabia’s burning shore

Rings t o t he hoofs of many a st eed.
Lord of a legion rides t o war
The indomit able Palamede.

The Paynim f ly; his t roops delight

In murder of many a myriad men,
Following exult ant int o fight
Sir Palamede t he Saracen.

Now when a year and day are done

Sir Palamedes is aware
Of blue pavilions in t he sun,
And banneret s flut t ering in t he air.

Forward he spurs; his armour gleams;

Then on his haunches rears t he st eed;
Above t he lordly silk t here st reams
The pennon of Sir Palamede!

Aflame, a bridegroom t o his spouse,

He rides t o meet wit h galliard grace
Some scion of his holy house,
Or germane t o his royal race. {6}

But oh! t he eyes of shame! Beneat h

The t all pavilion’s sapphire shade
There sport a band wit h wand and wreat h,
Languorous boy and laughing maid.

And in t he cent re is a sight

Of hat eful love and shameless shame:
A recreant Abyssianian knight
Sport s grossly wit h a want on dame.

H ow black and swinish is t he knave!

His hellish grunt , his best ial grin;
Her t rilling laugh, her gest ure suave,
The cool sweat swimming on her skin!
She looks and laughs upon t he knight ,
Then t urns t o buss t he blubber mout h,
Draining t he dregs of t hat black blight
Of wine t o ease t heir double drout h!

G od! what a glance! Sir Palamede

Is st ricken by t he sword of fat e:
His mot her it is in very deed
That gleef ul goes t he goat ish gait .

His mot her it his, t hat pure and pale

Cried in t he pangs t hat gave him birt h;
The holy image he would veil
From aught t he t iniest t aint of eart h. {7}

She knows him, and black fear bedim

Those eyes; she offers t o his gaze
The blue-veined breast s t hat suckled him
In childhood’s sweet and solemn days.

Weeping she bares t he holy womb!

Shrieks out t he mot her’s last appeal:
And reads irrevocable doom
In t hose dread eyes of ice and st eel.

He winds his horn: his warriors pour

In t housands on t he fenceless foe;
The sunset st ains t heir hideous war
Wit h crimson bars of aft er-glow.

He winds his horn; t he night -st ars leap

To light ; upspring t he sist ers seven;
While answering flames illume t he deep,
The blue pavilions blaze t o heaven.

Silent and st ern t he nort hward way

They ride; alone before his men
St aggers t hrough black t o rose and grey
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {8}
 ,,,

7HERE is a rock by Severn mout h

Whereon a might y cast le st ands,
Front ing t he blue impassive Sout h
And looking over lordly lands.

Oh! high above t he envious sea

This fort ress dominat es t he t ides;
There, ill at heart , t he chivalry
Of st rong Sir Palamede abides.

Now comes irrupt ion from t he fold

That live by murder: day by day
The good knight st rikes his deadly st roke;
The vult ures claw t he at t ended prey.

But day by day t he heat hen hordes.

Gat her from dreadf ul lands afar,
A myriad myriad bows and swords,
As clouds t hat blot t he morning st ar.

Soon by an arrow from t he sea

The Lady of Palamede is slain;
His son, in sally fight ing f ree,
Is st ruck t hrough burgonet and brain. {9}

But day by day t he foes increase,

Though day by day t heir t housands fall:
Laughs t he unshaken fort alice;
The good knight s laugh no more at all.

Grimmer t han heat her hordes can scowl,

The spect re hunger rages t here;
He passes like a midnight owl,
Hoot ing his heraldry, despair.

The knight s and squires of Palamede

St alk pale and lean t hrough court and hall;
Though sharp and swift t he archers speed
Their yardlong arrows from t he wall.
Their numbers t hin; t heir st rengt h decays;
Their fat e is writ t en plain t o read:
These are t he dread deciduous days
Of iron-souled Sir Palamede.

He hears t he horrid laugh t hat rings

From camp t o camp at night ; he hears
The cruel mout hs of murderous kings
Laugh out one menace t hat he f ears.

No sooner shall t he heroes die

Than, ere t heir flesh begin t o rot ,
The heat hen t urns his raving eye
To Caerlon and Camelot .

King Art hur in ignoble slot h

Is sunk, and dalliance wit h his dame,
Forget ful of his knight ly oat h,
And careless of his kingly name.

Befooled and cuckolded, t he king

Is yet t he king, t he king most high;
And on his life t he hinges swing
That close t he door of chivalry.

S
’ blood! shall it sink, and rise no more,
That blaze of t ime, when men were men?
That is t hy quest ion, warrior
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {11}

,9

1ow, wit h t wo score of men in life

And one fair babe, Sir Palamede
Resolves one last heroic st rife,
At t empt s forlorn a desperat e deed.

At dead of night , a moonless night ,

A night of wint er st orm, t hey sail
In dancing dragons t o t he fight
Wit h man and sea, wit h ghoul and gale.
Whom God shall spare, ride, ride! (so springs
The iron order). Let him fly
On honour’s st eed wit h honour’s wings
To warn t he king, lest honour die!

Then t o t he fury of t he blast

Their fury adds a dreadf ul st ing:
The fat al die is surely cast .
To save t he king - t o save t he king!

Hail! horror of t he midnight surge!

The st orms of deat h, t he lashing gust ,
The doubt ful gleam of swords t hat urge
Hot laught er wit h high-leaping lust ! {12}

Though one by one t he heroes fall,

Their desperat e way t hey slowly win,
And knight ly cry and comrade-call
Rise high above t he savage din.

Now, now t hey land, a dwindling crew;

Now, now fresh armies hem t hem round.
They cleave t heir blood-bought avenue,
And clust er on t he upper ground.

Ah! but dawn’s dreadf ul front uprears!

The t all t owers blaze, t o illume t he fight ;
While many a myriad heat hen spears
March nort hward at t he earliest light .

Falls t hy last comrade at t hy feet ,

O lordly-souled Sir Palamede?
Tearing t he savage from his seat ,
He leaps upon a coal-black st eed.

He gallops raging t hrough t he press:

The affright ed heat hen fear his eye.
There madness gleams, t here mast erless
The whirling sword shrieks shrill and high.

The shrink, he gallops. Closely clings

The child slung at his waist ; and he
Heeds nought , but gallops wide, and sings
Wild war-songs, chant s of gramarye! {13}
Sir Palamded t he Saracen
Rides like a cent aur mad wit h war;
He sabres many a million men,
And t ramples many a million more!

Before him lies t he unt ravelled land

Where never a human soul is known,
A desert by a wizard banned,
A soulless wilderness of st one.

Nor grass, nor corn, delight t he vales;

Nor beast , nor bird, span space. Immense,
Black rain, grey mist , whit e wrat h of gales,
Fill t he dread armoury of sense.

Nor shines t he sun; nor moon, nor st ar

Their subt le light at all display;
Nor day, nor night , disput e t he scaur:
All’s one int olerable grey.

Black llyns, grey rocks, whit e hills of snow!

No flower, no colour: life is not .
This is no way for men t o go
From Severn-mout h t o Camelot .

Despair, t he world upon his speed,

Drive (like a lion from his den
Whom hunger hunt s) t he man at need,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {14}

9

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Hat h cast his sword and arms aside.
To save t he world of goodly men,
He set s his t eet h t o ride - t o ride!

Three days: t he black horse drops and dies.

The t rappings furnish t hem a fire,
The beast a meal. Wit h dreadful eyes
St are int o deat h t he child, t he sire.
Six days: t he gaunt and gallant knight
Sees hat eful visions in t he day.
Where are t he ant ient speed and might
Were wont t o animat e t hat clay?

Nine days; t hey st umble on; no more

His st rengt h avails t o bear t he child.
St ill hangs t he mist , and st ill before
Yawns t he immeasurable wild.

Twelve days: t he end. Afar he spies

The mount ains st ooping t o t he plain;
A lit t le splash of sunlight lies
Beyond t he everlast ing rain. {15}

His st rengt h is done; he cannot st ir.

The child complains - how feebly now!
His eyes are blank; he looks at her;
The cold sweat gat hers on his brow.

To save t he world - t hree days away!

His life in knight hood’s life is furled,
And knight hood’s life in his - t o-day! -
His darling st aked against t he world!

Will he die t here, his t ask undone?

Or dare he live, at such a cost ?
He cries against t he impassive sun:
The world is dim, is all but lost .

When, wit h t he bit t erness of deat h

Cut t ing his soul, his fingers clench
The pit eous passage of her breat h.
The dews of horror rise and drench

Sir Palamede t he Saracen.

Then, rising from t he hideous meal,
He plunges t o t he land of men
Wit h nerves renewed and limbs of st eel.

Who is t he naked man t hat rides

Yon t ameless st allion on t he plain,
His face like Hell’s? What f ury guides
The maniac beast wit hout a rein? {16}
Who is t he naked man t hat spurs
A charger int o Camelot ,
His face like Christ ’s? what glory st irs
The air around him, do ye wot ?

S ir Art hur arms him, makes array

Of seven t imes t en t housand men,
And bids t hem follow and obey
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {17}

9,

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

The eart h from murder hat h released,
Is hidden from t he eyes of men.

Sir Art hur sit s again at feast .

The holy order burns wit h zeal:
It s fame revives from west t o east .

Now, following Fort une’s whirling-wheel,

There comes a dwarf t o Art hur’s hall,
All cased in damnascen&#138;d st eel.

A scept re and a golden ball

He bears, and on his head a crown;
But on his shoulders drapes a pall

O f velvet f lowing sably down

Above his vest of cramoisie.
Now dot h t he king of high renown

Demand him of his dignit y.

Whereat t he dwarf begins t o t ell
A quest of loft iest chivalry. {18}

Quod he: By Goddes holy spell,

So high a vent ure was not known,
Nor so divine a miracle.

A cert ain beast t here runs alone,

That ever in his belly sounds
A hugeous cry, a monst er moan,

As if a t hirt y couple hounds

Quest ed wit h him. Now God sait h
(I swear it by His holy wounds

And by His lament able deat h,

And by His holy Mot her’s face!)
That he shall know t he Beaut eous Breat h

And t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace

Who shall achieve t his marvel quest .
Then Art hur st ert e up f rom his place,

And st ert e up boldly all t he rest ,

And sware t o seek t his goodly t hing.
But now t he dwarf dot h beat his breast ,

A nd speak on t his wise t o t he king,

That he should wort hy knight be found
Who wit h his hands t he dwarf should bring

By might one span from of f t he ground.

Whereat t hey j eer, t he dwarf so small,
The knight s so st rong: t he walls resound {19}

Wit h laught er rat t ling round t he hall.

But Art hur first essays t he deed,
And may not budge t he dwarf at all.

Then Lancelot sware by Goddes reed,

And pulled so st rong his muscel burst ,
His nose and mout h brake out a-bleed;

Nor moved he t hus t he dwarf. From first

To last t he envious knight s essayed,
And all t heir malice had t he worst ,

Till st rong Sir Bors his prowess played -

And all his might avail&#138;d nought ,.
Now once Sir Bors had been bet rayed

To Paynim; him in t rait rise caught ,

They bound t o four st rong st allion st eers,
To t ear asunder, as t hey t hought ,

T he paladin of Art hur’s peers.

But he, a-bending, breaks t he spine
Of t hree, and on t he fourt h he rears

His bulk, and rides away. Divine

t he wonder when t he giant fails
To st ir t he fat uous dwarf , malign

Who smiles! But Boors on Art hur rails

That never a knight is wort h but one.
By Goddes deat h (quod he), what ails {20}

Us marsh-light s t o forget t he sun?

There is one man of mort al men
Wort hy t o win t his benison,

Sir Palamede t he Saracen.

Then went t he applauding murmur round:
Sir Lancelot girt him t here and t hen

To ride t o t hat enchant ed ground

Where amid t imeless snows t he den
Of Palamedes might be found.* {21}

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%EHOLD Sir Lancelot of t he Lake

Breast ing t he st ony screes: behold
How breat h must fail and muscle ache

Before he reach t he icy fold

That Palamede t he Saracen
Wit hin it s hermit age may hold.

At last he comet h t o a den

Perched high upon t he savage scaur,
Remot e f rom every haunt of men,

From every haunt of life afar.

There dot h he find Sit Palamede
Sit t ing as st eadfast as a st ar.

Scarcely he knew t he knight indeed,

For he was compassed in a beard
Whit e as t he st reams of snow t hat feed

The lake of Gods and men revered

That sit t et h upon Caucasus.
So mut t ered he a darkling weird, {22}

And smot e his bosom murderous.

His nails like eagles’ claws were grown;
His eyes were wild and dull; but t hus

Sir Lancelot spake: Thy deeds at one

By knight ly devoir! He ret urned
That While t he land was overgrown

Wit h giant , fiend, and ogre burned

My sword; but now t he Paynim bars
Are broke, and men t o virt ue t urned:

Therefore I sit upon t he scars

Amid my beard, even as t he sun
Sit s in t he company of t he st ars!

Then Lancelot bade t his deed be done,

The achievement of t he Quest ing Beast .
Which when he spoke t hat holy one

Rose up, and gat him t o t he east

Wit h Lancelot ; when as t hey drew
Unt o t he palace and t he feast

He put his lit t lest finger t o

The dwarf , who rose t o upper air,
Piercing t he far et ernal blue

Beyond t he reach of song or prayer.

Then did Sir Palamede amend
His nakedness, his horrent hair, {23}

His nails, and made his penance end,

Clot hing himself in st eel and gold,
Arming himself , his life t o spend

IN vigil cold and wandering bold,

Disdaining song and dalliance soft ,
Seeking one purpose t o behold,

And holding ever t hat alof t ,

Nor fearing God, nor heeding men.
So t hus his hermit habit doffed
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {24}

9,,,

.NOW ye where Druid dolmens rise

In Wessex on t he widow plain?
Thit her Sir Palamedes plies

The spur, and shakes t he rat t ling rein.

He quest ions all men of t he Beast .
None answer. Is t he quest in vain?

Wit h oaken crown t here comes a priest

In samit e robes, wit h hazel wand,
And worships at t he gilded East .

Ay! t hit her ride! The dawn beyond

Must run t he quarry of his quest .
He rode as he were wood or fond,

Unt il at night behoves him rest .

- He saw t he gilding far behind
Out on t he hills t oward t he West !

Wit h aimless fury hot and blind

He flung him on a Viking ship.
He slew t he rover, and inclined {25}
The seamen t o his st inging whip.
Accurs’d of God, despising men,
Thy reckless oars in ocean dip,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {26}

,;

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Sailed ever wit h a favouring wind
Unt o t he smoot h and swart hy men

That haunt t he evil shore of Hind:

He queried eager of t he quest .
Ay! Ay! t heir cunning sages grinned:

It shines! It shines! Guess t hou t he rest !

For naught but t his our Rishis know.
Sir Palamede his way addressed

Unt o t he woods: t hey blaze and glow;

His lance st abs many a shining blade,
His sword lays many a flower low

That glit t ering gladdened in t he glade.

He wrot e himself a want on ass,
And t o t he sea his t races laid,

Where many a wavelet on t he glass

His prowess knows. But deep and deep
His fut ile f eet in fury pass, {27}

Unt il one billow curls t o leap,

And f lings him breat hless on t he shore
Half drowned. O fool! his God’s asleep,

His armour in illusion’s war

It self illusion, all his might
And courage vain. Yet ardours pour

Through every art ery. The knight

Scales t he Himalaya’s frozen sides,
Crowned wit h illimit able light ,

And t here in const ant war abides,

Smit ing t he spangles of t he snow;
Smit ing unt il t he vernal t ides

Of eart h leap high; t he st eady flow

Of sunlight split s t he icy walls:
They slide, t hey hurl t he knight below.

Sir Palamede t he might y f alls

Int o an hollow where t here dwelt
A bearded crew of monachals

Asleep in various visions spelt

By myst ic symbols unt o men.
But when a foreigner t hey smelt

They drive him from t heir holy den,

And wit h t heir glit t ering eyeballs pelt
Sir Palamede t he Saracen.* {28}

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N ow findet h he, as all alone

He moves about t he burning East ,
The might y t rail of some unknown,
But surely some maj est ic beast .

So followet h he t he forest ways,

Remembering his knight ly oat h,
And t hrough t he hot and dripping days
Ploughs t hrough t he t angled undergrowt h.

Sir Palamede t he Saracen

Came on a forest pool at lengt h,
Remot e f rom any mart of men,
Where t here disport ed in his st rengt h

The lone and lordly elephant .

Sir Palamede his forehead beat .
O amorous! O milit ant !
O lord of t his arboreal seat !

Thus worshipped he, and st alking st ole

Int o t he presence: he emerged.
The scent awakes t he uneasy soul
Of t hat Maj est ic One: upsurged {29}

The monst er f rom t he oozy bed,

And bounded t hrough t he crashing glades.
- but now a st aring savage head
Lurks at him t hrough t he f orest shades.

This was a naked Indian,

Who led wit hin t he cit y gat e
The fooled and disappoint ed man,
Already broken by his fat e.

Here were t he brazen t owers, and here

t he scuplt ured rocks, t he marble shrine
Where t o a t all black st one t hey rear
The alt ars due t o t he divine.

T he God t hey deem in sensual j oy

Absorbed, and silken dalliance:
To please his leisure hours a boy
Compels an elephant t o dance.

So maj est y t o ridicule

Is t urned. To ot her climes and men
Makes off t hat st rong, persist ent fool
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {30}

;,

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Hat h hied him t o an holy man,
Sit h he alone of mort al men
Can help him, if a mort al can.
(So t ell him all t he Scyt hian folk.)
Wherefore he makes a caravan,

And finds him. When his prayers invoke

The holy knowledge, sait h t he sage:
This Beast is he of whom t here spoke

The prophet s of t he Golden Age:

’Mark! all t hat mind is, he is not .’
Sir Palamede in bit t er rage

St ert e up: Is t his t he fool, ’Od wot ,

To see t he like of whom I came
From cast ellat ed Camelot ?

The sage wit h eyes of burning flame

Cried: Is it not a miracle?
Ay! for wit h folly t ravellet h shame, {31}

And t heret o at t he end is Hell

Believe! And why believe? Because
It is a t hing impossible.

Sir Palamede his pulses pause.

It is not possible (quod he)
That Palamede is wrot h, and draws

His sword, decapit at ing t hee.

By parit y of argument
This deed of blood must surely be.

W it h t hat he suddenly besprent

All Scyt hia wit h t he sage’s blood,
And laught ing in his woe he went

Unt o a furt her field and flood,

Aye guided by t hat wizard’s head,
That like a windy moon did scud

Before him, winking eyes of red

And snapping j aws of whit e: but t hen
What cared for living or for dead
Sir Palamede t he Saracen? {32}

;,,

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Follows t he Head t o gloomy halls
Of st erile hat e, wit h icy walls.
A woman clucking like a hen
Answers his lordly bugle-calls.

She rees him in ungainly rede

Of ghost s and virgins, doves and wombs,
Of roods and prophecies and t ombs -
Old pagan fables run t o seed!
Sir Palamede wit h fury fumes.

So dot h t he Head t hat j abbers fast

Against t hat woman’s t angled t ale.
(God’s pat ience at t he end must fail!)
Out sweeps t he sword - t he blade hat h passed
Through all her scraggy fart hingale.

This chat t er lends t o Thought a zest

(Quod he), but I am all for Act .
Sit here, unt il your Talk hat h cracked
The addled egg in Nat ure’s nest !
Wit h t hat he fled t he dismal t ract . {33}

He was so sick and ill at ease

And hot against his fellow men,
He t hought t o end his purpose t hen -
Nay! let him seek new lands and seas,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen!

{34}

;,,,

6IR PALAMEDE is come anon

Int o a blue delicious bay.
A mount ain t owers t hereupon,
Wherein some fiend of ages gone

Is whelmed by God, yet from his breast

Spit s up t he f lame, and ashes grey.
Hereby Sir Palamede his quest
Pursues wit hout en let or rest .

Seeing t he evil mount ain be,

Remembering all his evil years,
He knows t he Quest ing Beast runs free -
Aut hor of Evil, t hen, is he!

Whereat immediat e resounds

The noise he hat h sought so long: appears
There quest a t hirt y couple hounds
Wit hin it s belly as it bounds.

Lift ing his eyes, he sees at last

The beast he seeks: ’t is like an hart .
Ever it courset h far and fast .
Sir Palamede is sore aghast , {35}

But plucking up his will, dot h launch

A might poison-dipp&#138;d dart :
It faret h ever sure and st aunch,
And smit et h him upon t he haunch.

Then as Sir Palamede overhauls

The st ricken quarry, slack it droops,
St aggers, and final down it falls.
Triumph! Gape wide, ye golden walls!

Lift up your everlast ing doors,

O gat es of Camelot ! See, he swoops
Down on t he prey! The life-blood pours:
The poison works: t he breat h implores

It s livelong debt f rom heart and brain.

Alas! poor st ag, t hy day is done!
The gallant lungs gasp loud in vain:
Thy life is spilt upon t he plain.

Sir Palamede is st ricken numb

As one who, gazing on t he sun,
Sees blackness gat her. Blank and dumb,
The good knight sees a t hin breat h come

Out of his proper mout h, and dart

Over t he plain: he seet h it
Sure by some black magician art
Shape ever closer like an hart : {36}

While such a quest ing t here resounds

As God had loosed t he very Pit ,
Or as a t hirt y couple hounds
Are in it s belly as it bounds!

Full sick at heart , I ween, was t hen

The loyal knight , t he weak of wit ,
The but t of lewd and puny men,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {37}

;,9

1ORTHWARD t he good knight gallops fast ,

Resolved t o seek his foe at home,
When rose t hat Vision of t he past ,
The royal bat t lement s of Rome,
A ruined cit y, and a dome.

There in t he broken Forum sat

A red-robed robber in a Hat .
Whit her away, Sir Knight , so fey?
Priest , for t he dove on Ararat
I could not , nor I will not , st ay!

I know t hy quest . Seek on in vain

A golden hart wit h silver horns!
Life springet h out of divers pains.
What crown t he King of Kings adorns?
A crown of gems? A crown of t horns!

The Quest ing Beast is like a king

In face, and hat h a pigeon’s wing
And claw; it s body is one f leece
Of bloody whit e, a lamb’s in spring.
Enough. Sir Knight , I give t hee peace. {38}
The Knight spurs on, and soon espies
A monst er coursing on t he plain.
he hears t he horrid quest ing rise
And t hunder in his weary brain.
This t ime, t o slay it or be slain!

Too easy t ask! The charger gains

St ride aft er st ride wit h lit t le pains
Upon t he lumbering, f lapping t hing.
He st abs t he lamb, and split s t he brains
Of t hat maj est ic-seeming king.

H e clips t he wing and pares t he claw -

What t urns t o laught er all his j oy,
To wondering ribaldry his awe?
The beast ’s a mere mechanic t oy,
Fit t o amuse an idle boy! {39}

;9

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Hat h come t o an umbrageous land
Where nymphs abide, and Pagan men.
The Gods are nigh, say t hey, at hand.
How warm a t hrob from Venus st irs
The pulses of her worshippers!

Nor shall t he Tuscan God be found

Reluct ant from t he alt ar-st one:
His perf ume shall delight t he ground,
His presence t o his hold be known
In darkling grove and glimmering shrine -
O ply t he kiss and pour t he wine!

Sir Palamede is fairly come

Int o a place of glowing bowers,
Where all t he Voice of Time is dumb:
Before an alt ar crowned wit h flowers
He seet h a sat yr fondly dot e
And languish on a swan-soft goat .

Then he in mid-caress desires

The ear of st rong Sir Palamede. {40}
We burn, qout h he, no fut ile fires,
Nor play upon an idle reed,
Nor penance vain, nor fat uous prayers -
The Gods are ours, and we are t heirs.

Sir Palamedes plucks t he pipe

The sat yr t ends, and blows a t rill
So soft and warm, so red and ripe,
That echo answers from t he hill
In eager and volupt uous st rain,
While grows upon t he sounding plain

A gallop, and a quest ing t urned

To one profound melodious bay.
Sir Palamede wit h pleasure burned,
And bowed him t o t he idol grey
That on t he alt ar sneered and leered
Wit h loose red lips behind his beard.

Sir Palamedes and t he Beast

Are woven in a web of gold
Unt il t he gilding of t he East
Burns on t he want on-smiling wold:
And st ill Sir Palamede believed
His holy quest t o be achieved!

But now t he dawn from glowing gat es

Floods all t he land: wit h snarling lip
The Beast st ands off and cachinnat es.
That st ings t he good knight like a whip, {41}
As suddenly Hell’s own disgust
Eat s up t he j oy he had of lust .

The brut al glee his folly t ook

For holy j oy breaks down his brain.
Off bolt s t he Beast : t he eart h is shook
As out a quest ing roars again,
As if a t hirt y couple hounds
Are in it s belly as it bounds!

The peasant s gat her t o deride

The knight : creat ion j oins in mirt h.
Ashamed and scorned on every side,
There gallops, hat eful t o t he eart h,
The laughing-st ock of beast s and men,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {42}
 ;9,

:HERE shaft s of moonlight splash t he vale,

Beside a st ream t here sit s and st rains
Sir Palamede, wit h passion pale,

And haggard from his broken brains.

Yet eagerly he wat ches st ill
A mossy mound where daint y grains

Of gilded corn t heir beaut y spill

To t empt t he quarry t o t he range
Of Palamede his archer skill.

All might he sit s, wit h ardour st range

And hope new-fledged. A gambler born
Aye t hings t he luck one day must change,

Though sense and skill he laughs t o scorn.

so now t here rush a t housand rat s
In sable silence on t he corn.

They sport t heir square or shovel hat s,

A squeaking, t oot h-bare brot herhood,
Innumerable as summer gnat s {43}

Buzzing some st reamlet t hrough a wood.

Sir Palamede grows might y wrot h,
And mut t ers maledict ions rude,

Seeing his quarry far and lot h

And t hieves despoiling all t he bait .
Now, careless of t he knight ly oat h,

The sun pours down his east ern gat e.

The chase is over: see ye t hen,
Coursing afar, afoam at fat e
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {44}
 ;9,,

6IR PALAMEDE hat h t old t he t ale

Of t his misfort une t o a sage,
How all his vent ures nought avail,

And all his hopes dissolve in rage.

Now by t hine holy beard, quot h he,
And by t hy venerable age

I charge t hee t his my riddle ree.

Then said t hat gent le eremit e:
This t ask is easy unt o me!

Know t hen t he Quest ing Beast aright !

One is t he Beast , t he Quest ing one:
And one wit h one is t wo, Sir Knight !

Yet t hese are one in t wo, and none

disj oins t heir subst ance (mark me well!),
Confounds t heir persons. Right ly run

Their at t ribut es: immeasurable,

Incomprehensibundable,
Unspeakable, inaudible, {45}

Int angible, ingust able,

Insensit ive t o human smell,
Invariable, implacable,

Invincible, insciable,
Irrat ionapsychicable,
Inequilegij urable,

Immamemimomummable.
Such is it s nat ure: wit hout part s,
Places, or persons, plumes, or pell,

Having nor lungs nor light s nor heart s,

But t wo in one and one in t wo.
Be he accurs&#138;d t hat dispart s

Them now, or seemet h so t o do!

Him will I pile t he curses on;
Him will I hand, or saw him t hrough,

Or burn wit h fire, who doubt s upon

This doct rine, hot ot ot on spells
The holy word ot ot ot on.

T he poor Sir Palamedes quells

His rising spleen; he doubt s his ears.
How may I cat ch t he Beast ? he yells.

The smiling sage rebukes his fears:

’Tis easier t han all, Sir Knight !
By simple fait h t he Beast appears. {46}

By simple fait h, not heat hen might ,

Cat ch him, and t hus achieve t he quest !
Then quot h t hat melancholy wight :

I will believe! The hermit blessed

His convert : on t he horizon
Appears t he Beast . To t hee t he rest !

He cries, t o urge t he good knight on.

But no! Sir Palamedes grips
The hermit by t he woebegone

Bear of him; t hen away he rips,

Wood as a maniac, t o t he West ,
Where down t he sun in splendour slips,

And where t he quarry of t he quest

Cant ers. They run like hippogriffs!
Like men pursued, or swine possessed,

Over t he dizzy Cret an cliffs

t hey smash. And lo! it comes t o pass
He sees in no dim hieroglyphs,

In knowledge easy t o amass,

This hermit (while he drew his breat h)
Once dead is like a mangy ass.

Bruised, broken, but not bound t o deat h,

He calls some passing fishermen
To bear him. Present ly he sait h: {47}

Bear me t o some remot est den

To Heal me of my ills immense;
For now hat h neit her might nor sense
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {48}

;9,,,

6IR PALAMEDES for a space

Deliberat es on his rust ic bed.
I lack t he quarry’s awful pace

Q
( uod he); my limbs are slack as lead.
So, as he get s his st rengt h, he seeks
The cast les where t he pennons red

Of dawn illume t heir dreadful peaks.

There dragons st ret ch t heir horrid coils
Adown t he winding cleft s and creeks:

From hideous mout hs t heir venom boils.

But Palamede t heir f ury ’scapes,
Their malice by his valour f oils,

Climbing aloft by bays and capes

Of rock and ice, encount ers oft
The loat hly sprit es, t he mist y shapes

O f monst er brut es t hat lurk aloft .

O! well he works: his yout h ret urns
His heart revives: despair is doffed {49}

And eager hope in brilliance burns

Wit hin t he circle of his brows
As fast he flies, t he snow he spurns.
Ah! what a yout h and st rengt h he vows
To t he achievement of t he quest !
And now t he horrid height allows

His mast ery: day by day from crest

To crest he hast ens: fast er fly
His feet : his body knows not rest ,

Unt il wit h magic speed t hey ply

Like oars t he snowy waves, surpass
In one day’s march t he galaxy

Of Europe’s st arry mount ain mass.

Now, quot h he, let me find t he quest !
The Beast st ert e up. Sir Knight , Alas!

Day aft er day t hey race, nor rest

Till seven days were fairly done.
Then dot h t he Quest ing Marvel crest

The ridge: t he knight is well out run.

Now, adding laught er t o it s din,
Like some lewd comet at t he sun,

Around t he pant ing paladin

It runs wit h all it s splendid speed.
Yet , knowing t hat he may not win, {50}

He st rains and st rives in very deed,

So t hat at last a boulder t rips
The hero, t hat he burst s a-bleed,

And sanguine from his bearded lips

The t orrent of his being breaks.
The Beast is gone: t he hero slips

Down t o t he valley: he forsakes

The fond idea (every bone
In all his body burns and aches)

By speed t o at t ain t he dear Unknown,

By force t o achieve t he great Beyond.
Yet from t hat brain may spring full-grown
Anot her folly j ust as fond. {51}

;,;

7HE knight hat h found a naked girl

Among t he dunes of Bret on sand.
She spinnet h in a myst ic whirl,

And hat h a bagpipe in her hand,

Wherefrom she drawet h dismal groans
The while her maddening saraband

She plies, and wit h discordant t ones

Desires a cert ain devil-grace.
She gat hers wreckage-wood, and bones

O f seamen, j et sam of t he place,

And builds t herewit h a fire, wherein
She dances, bounding int o space

Like an inflat ed ass’s skin.

She raves, and reels, and yells, and whirls
So t hat t he t ears of t oil begin

To dew her breast s wit h ardent pearls.

Nor dot h she mit igat e her dance,
The bagpipe ever louder skirls, {52}

Unt il t he shapes of deat h advance

And gat her round her, shrieking loud
And wailing o’er t he wide expanse

Of sand, t he gibbering, mewing crowd.

Like cat s, and apes, t hey gat her close,
Till, like t he horror of a cloud

Wrapping t he f laming sun wit h rose,

They hide her f rom t he hero’s sight .
Then dot h he must t hereat morose,

When in one wild cascade of light

The pageant breaks, and t hunder roars:
Down flaps t he loat hly wing of night .

He sees t he lonely Bret on shores

Lapped in t he levin: t hen his eyes
See how she shrieking soars and soars

Int o t he st arless, st ormy skies.

Well! well! t his lesson will he learn,
How music’s mellowing art ifice

May bid t he breast of nat ure burn

And call t he gods from st ar and shrine.
So now his sounding courses t urn

To find an inst rument divine

Whereon he may pursue his quest .
How glit t er green his gleef ul eyne {53}

When, where t he mice and lice infest

A filt hy hovel, lies a wench
Bearing a baby at her breast ,

Drunk and debauched, one solid st ench,

But carrying a silver lut e.
’Boardet h her, nor dot h baulk nor blench,

And long abidet h brut e by brut e

Amid t he unsavoury denzens,
Unt il his melodies uproot

The oaks, lure lions from t heir dens,

Turn rivers back,and st ill t he spleen
Of serpent s and of Saracens.

Thus t hen equipped, he quit s t he quean,

And in a cit y fair and wide
Calls up wit h music wild and keen

The Quest ing Marvel t o his side.

Then do t he sport ful cit y f olk
About his lonely st ance abide:

Making t heir holiday, t hey j oke

The melancholy ass: t hey t hrow
Their clat t ering coppers in his poke.

So day and night t hey come and go,

But never comes t he Quest ing Beast ,
Nor dot h t hat laughing people know {54}

How agony’s unleavening yeast

St irs Palamede. Anon t hey t ire,
And follow an Egypt ian priest

Who boast s him mast er of t he fire

To draw down light ning, and invoke
The gods upon a sandal pyre,

And bring up devils in t he smoke.

Sir Palamede is all alone,
Wrapped in his misery like a cloak,

Despairing now t o charm t he Unknown.

So arms and horse he t akes again.
Sir Palamede hat h overt hrown

The j est ers. Now t he count ry men,

St upidly st aring, see at noon
Sir Palamede t he Saracen

A-riding like an harvest moon

In silver arms, wit h glit t ering lance,
Wit h plum&#138;d helm, and wing&#138;d shoon,
At hwart t he admiring land of France. {55}

;;

6IR PALAMEDE hat reasoned out

Beyond t he shadow of a doubt
That t his his Quest ing Beast is one;
For were it Beast s, he must suppose
An earlier Beast t o fat her t hose.
So all t he t racks of herds t hat run

Int o t he forest he discards,

And only t urns his dark regards
On single print s, on marks unique.
Sir Palamede dot h now at t ain
Unt o a wide and grassy plain,
Whereon he spies t he t hing t o seek.

Thereat he put t et h spur t o horse

And runnet h him a random course,
The Beast a-quest ing aye before.
But praise t o good Sir Palamede!
’Hat h got t en him a fairy st eed
Alike for venery and for war,

So t hat in lit t le drawing near

The quarry, lift et h up his spear
To run him of his malice t hrough. {56}
Wit h t hat t he Beast hopes no escape,
Dissolvet h all his lordly shape,
Split t et h him sudden int o t wo.

Sir Palamede in fury runs

Unt o t he nearer beast , t hat shuns
The shock, and split s, and split s again,
Unt il t he baffled warrior sees
A myriad myriad swarms of t hese
A-quest ing over all t he plain.

The good knight reins his charger in.

Now, by t he fait h of Paladin!
The subt le quest at last I hen.
Rides off t he Camelot t o plight
The fait h of many a noble knight ,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {57}

;;,

1ow dot h Sir Palamede advance

The lord of many a sword and lance.
in merrie England’s summer sun
Their shields and arms a-glit t ering glance

And laugh upon t he mossy mead.

Now winds t he horn of Palamede,
As far upon t he horizon
He spies t he Quest ing Beast a-feed.

Wit h loyal craft and honest guile

They spread t heir ranks for many a mile.
for when t he Beast hat heard t he horn
he pract iset h his ancient wile,

And many a myriad beast s invade

The st illness of t hat arm&#138;d glade.
Now every knight t o rest hat h borne
His lance, and given t he accolade,

A nd run upon a beast : but t hey Slip f rom t he fat al point away
And course about , conf using all
That gallant concourse all t he day, {58}

Leading t hem ever t o a vale

Wit h hugeous cry and monst er wail.
t hen suddenly t heir voices fall,
And in t he park’s resounding pale

Only t he clamour of t he chase

is heard: oh! t o t he cent re race
The unsuspicious knight s: but he
The Quest ing Beast his former face

Of unit y resumes: t he course

Of warriors shocks wit h man and horse.
In mut ual madness swift t o see
They shat t er wit h unbridled force

One on anot her: down t hey go

Swift in st upendous overt hrow.
Out sword! out lance! Curiass and helm
Splint er beneat h t he knight ly blow.

They st orm, t hey charge, t hey hack and hew,

They rush and wheel t he press at hrough.
The weight , t he murder, over whelm
One, t wo, and all. Nor silence knew

His empire t ill Sir Palamede

(The last ) upon his fairy st eed
St ruck down his brot her; t hen at once
Fell silence on t he bloody mead, {59}

U nt il t he quest ing rose again.

For t here, on t hat ensanguine plain
St andet h a-laughing at t he dunce
The single Beast t hey had not slain.

There, wit h his friends and followers dead,

His brot her smit t en t hrough t he head,
Himself sore wounded in t he t high,
Weepet h upon t he deed of dread,

Alone among his murdered men,

The champion fool, as fools were t hen,
Ut t erly broken, like t o die,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen. {60}

;;,,

6IR PALAMEDE his wit s dot h rally,

Nursing his wound beside a lake
Wit hin an admirable valley,

Whose walls t heir t hirst on heaven slake,

And in t he moonlight myst ical
Their count less spears of silver shake.

Thus reasons he: In each and all

Fyt t es of t his quest t he quarry’s t rack
Is wondrous geomet rical.

In spire and whorl t wist s out and back

The hart wit h fair symmet ric line.
And lo! t he grain of wit I lack -

This Beast is Mast er of Design.

So st udying each t wist ed print
In t his mirific mind of mine,

My heart may happen on a hint .

Thus as t he seeker aft er gold
Eagerly chases grain or glint , {61}

The knight at last wins t o behold

The f ull concept ion. Breat hless-blue
The fair lake’s mirror cryst al-cold

Wherein he gazes, keen t o view

The vast Design t herein, t o chase
The Beast t o his last avenue.

Then - O t hou gosling scant of grace!

The dream breaks, and Sir Palamede
Wakes t o t he glass of his fool’s face!

Ah, ’sdeat h! (quod he), by t hought and deed

This brut e for ever mocket h me.
The lance is made a broken reed,

T he brain is but a barren t ree -

For all t he beaut if ul Design
Is but mine own geomet ry!

Wit h t hat his wrat h brake out like wine.

He plunged his body in, and shat t ered
The whole delusion asinine.

All t he false wat er-nymphs t hat flat t ered

He killed wit h his resounding curse -
O fool of God! as if it mat t ered!

So, not hing bet t er, rat her worse,

Out of t he blue bliss of t he pool
Came dripping t hat invet erat e fool! {62}

;;,,,

1OW st ill he holdet h argument :

So grand a Beast must house him well;
hence, now beseemet h me frequent
Cat hedral, palace, cit adel.
So, riding fast among t he flowers
Far off, a Got hic spire he spies,
That like a gladiat or t owers
It s spear-sharp splendour t o t he skies.

T he people clust er round, acclaim:

Sir Knight , good knight , t hy quest is won.
Here dwells t he Beast in orient flame,
Spring-sweet , and swift er t han t he sun!

Sir Palamede t he Saracen

Spurs t o t he shrine, afire t o win
The end; and all t he urgent men
Throng wit h him eloquent ly in.

Sir Palamede his vizor drops;

He lays his loyal lance in rest ;
He drives t he rowels home - he st ops!
Faugh! but a black-mout hed money-chest ! {63}

He t urns - t he friendly folk are gone,

gone wit h his sumpt er-mules and t rain
Beyond t he infinit e horizon
Of all he hopes t o see again!

His brain befooled, his pocket picked -

How t he Beast cachinnat ed t hen,
Far from t hat doleful derelict
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {64}

;;,9

2NE t hing at least (quot h Palamede),

Beyond disput e my soul can see:
This Quest ing Beast t hat mocks my need
Dwellet h in deep obscurit y.

So delvet h he a darksome hole

Wit hin t he bowels of Et na dense,
Closing t he harbour of his soul
To all t he pirat e-ships of sense.
And now t he quest ing of t he Beast
Rolls in his very self , and high
Leaps his while heart in fiery feast
On t he expect ed ecst asy.

But echoing from t he cent ral roar

Reverberat es many a mournful moan,
And shapes more myst ic t han before
Baffle it s formless monot one!

Ah! mocks him many a myriad vision,

Warring wit hin him mast erless,
Turning devot ion t o derision,
Beat it ude t o beast liness. {65}

They swarm, t hey grow, t hey mult iply;

The St rong knight ’s brain goes all a-swim,
Paced by t hat maddening minst relsy,
Those dog-like demons hunt ing him.

The last bar breaks; t he st eel will snaps;

The black hordes riot in his brain;
A t housand t hreat ening t hunder-claps
Smit e him - insane - insane - insane!

His muscles roar wit h senseless rage;

The pale knight st aggers, deat hly sick;
Reels t o t he light t hat sorry sage,
Sir Palamede t he Lunat ick. {66}

;;9

$ SAVAGE sea wit hout a sail,

Grey gulphs and green a-glit t ering,
Rare snow t hat float s - a vest al veil
Upon t he forehead of t he spring.

Here in a plunging galleon

Sir Palamede, a list less drone,
Drift s desperat ely on - and on -
And on - wit h heart and eyes of st one.
The deep-scarred brain of him is healed
Wit h wind and sea and st ar and sun,
The assoiling grace t hat God revealed
For gree and bount eous benison.

Ah! st ill he t rust s t he recreant brain,

Thrown in a t housand t ourney-j ust s;
St ill he raves on in reason-st rain
Wit h senseless ought s and fat uous must s.

All t he delusions (arguet h

The ass), all uproars, surely rise
From t hat curst Me whose name is Deat h,
Whereas t he Quest ing beast belies {67}

The Me wit h Thou; t hen swift t he quest

To slay t he Me should hook t he Thou.
Wit h t hat he crossed him, brow and breast ,
And f lung his body from t he prow.

An end? Alas! on silver sand

Open his eyes; t he surf-rings roar.
What snort s t here, swimming from t he land?
The Beast t hat brought him t o t he shore!

O Beast ! quot h purple Palamede,

A monst er st range as Thou am I.
I could not live before, indeed;
And not I cannot even die!

Who chose me, of t he Table Round

By miracle acclaimed t he chief?
Here, wat erlogged and muscle-bound,
Marooned upon a coral reef! {68}

;;9,

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Hat h got t en him a swift canoe,
Paddled by st alwart Sout h Sea men.

They cleave t he oily breast s of blue,

St raining t oward t he west ering disk
Of t he t all sun; t hey bat t le t hrough

Those weary days; t he wind is brisk;

The st ars are clear; t he moon is high.
Now, even as a whit e basilisk

That slayet h all men wit h his eye,

St ands up before t hem t apering
The cone of speechless sanct it y.

Up, up it s slopes t he pilgrims swing,

Chant ing t heir pagan gramarye
Unt o t he dread volcano-king.

Now, t hen, by Goddes reed! quod he,

Behold t he secret of my quest
In t his far-famed st abilit y! {69}

For all t hese Paynim knight s may rest

In t he black bliss t hey st ruggle t o.
But from t he eart h’s full-flowered breast

Brake t he blind roar of eart hquake t hrough,

Tearing t he belly of it s mot her,
Engulphing all t hat heat hen crew,

That cried and cursed on one anot her.

Aghast he st andet h, Palamede!
For t winned wit h Eart hquake laughs her brot her

The Quest ing Beast . As Goddes reed

Sweat s blood for sin, so now t he heart
Of t he good knight begins t o bleed.

Of all t he ruinous shaft s t hat dart

Wit hin his liver, t his hat h plied
The most int olerable smart .

By Goddes wounds! t he good knight cried,

What is t his quest , grown daily daft er,
Where not hing - not hing - may abide?

West ward! They fly, but rolling aft er

Echoes t he Beast ’s unsat isfied
And inext inguishable laught er! {70}

;;9,,

6IR PALAMEDE goes aching on

(Pox of despair’s dread int erdict !)
Aye t o t he west ern horizon,

St ill medit at ing, sharp and st rict ,

Upon t he changes of t he eart h,
It s t owers and t emples derelict ,

The ready ruin of it s mirt h,

The f lowers, t he fruit s, t he leaves t hat fall,
The j oy of life, it s growing girt h -

And not hing as t he end of all.

Yea, even as t he Yang-t ze rolled
It s rapids past him, so t he wall

Of t hings brake down; his eyes behold

The might y Beast serenely couched
Upon it s breast of burnished gold.

A h! by Christ ’s blood! (his soul avouched),

Not hing but change (but change!) abides.
Deat h lurks, a leopard curled and crouched, {71}

In all t he seasons and t he t ides.

But ah! t he more it changed and changed -
(The good knight laughed t o split his sides!)

What ? Is t he soul of t hings deranged?

The more it changed, and rippled t hrough
It s changes, and st ill changed, and changed,

The liker t o it self it grew.

Bear me, he cried, t o purge my bile
To t he old land of Hormakhu,
That I may sit and curse awhile
At all t hese follies fond t hat pen
My quest about - on, on t o Nile!

Tread t enderly, my merry men!

For not hing is so void and vile
As Palamede t he Saracen. {72}

;;9,,,

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Hat h clad him in a sable robe;
Hat h curses, writ by holy men
From all t he gardens of t he globe.

He st andet h at an alt ar-st one;

The blood drips f rom t he slain babe’s t hroat ;
His chant rolls in a magick moan;
His head bows t o t he crown&#138;d goat .

His wand makes curves and spires in air;

The smoke of incense curls and quivers;
His eyes fix in a glass-cold st are:
The land of Egypt rocks and shivers!

Lo! by t hy Gods, O God, I vow

To burn t he aut hent ic bones and blood
Of curst Osiris even now
To t he dark Nile’s upsurging flood!

I cast t hee down, oh crowned and t hroned!

To black Amennt i’s void profane.
Unt il mine anger be at oned
Thou shalt not ever rise again. {73}

Wit h firm red lips and square black beard,

Osiris in his st rengt h appeared.

He made t he sign t hat savet h men

On Palamede t he Saracen.
H
’ at h hushed his conj urat ion grim:
The curse comes back t o sleep wit h him.

H
’ at h fallen himself t o t hat profane
Whence none might ever rise again.

Dread t ort ure racks him; all his bones

Get voice t o ut t er fort h his groans.

The very poison of his blood

Joins in t hat cry’s soul-shaking flood.

For many a chiliad count ed well

His soul st ayed in it s proper Hell.

Then, when Sir Palamedes came

Back t o himself , t he shrine was dark.
Cold was t he incense, dead t he f lame;
The slain babe lay t here black and st ark.

W hat of t he Beast ? What of t he quest ?

More blind t he quest , t he Beast more dim.
Even now it s laught er is suppressed,
While his own demons mock at him! {74}

O t hou most desperat e dupe t hat Hell’s

Malice can make of mort al men!
Meddle no more wit h magick spells,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {75}

;;,;

+A! but t he good knight , st riding fort h

From Set ’s abominable shrine,
Pursues t he quest wit h bit t er wrat h,
So t hat his words flow out like wine.

And lo! t he soul t hat hearet h t hem

Is st raight way healed of suffering.
His fame runs t hrough t he land of Khem:
They flock, t he peasant and t he king.

T here he works many a miracle:

The blind see, and t he cripples walk;
Lepers grow clean; sick folk grow well;
The deaf men hear, t he dumb men t alk.

He cast s out devils wit h a word;

Circlet h his wand, and dead men rise.
No such a wonder hat h been heard
Since Christ our God’s sweet sacrifice.

Now, by t he glad blood of our Lord!

Quot h Palamede, my heart is light .
I am t he chosen harpsichord
Whereon God playet h; t he perf ect knight , {76}

The saint of Mary - t here he st ayed,

For out of Memnon’s singing st one
So fierce a quest ing barked and brayed,
It t urned his laught er t o a groan.

His vow forgot , his t ask undone,

His soul whipped in God’s bit t er school!
(He moaned a might y malison!)
The perfect knight ? The perfect fool!

Now, by God’s wounds! quot h he, my st rengt h

Is burnt out t o a pest of pains.
Let me fling off my curse at lengt h
In old Chaldea’s st arry plains!

Thou bless&#138;d Jesus, foully nailed

Unt o t he cruel Calvary t ree,
Look on my soul’s poor fort assailed
By all t he host s of devilry!

Is t here no medicine but deat h

That shall avail me in my place,
That I may know t he Beaut eous Breat h
And t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace?

Keep Thou yet firm t his t rembling leaf

My soul, dear God Who died for men;
Yea! for t hat sinner-soul t he chief,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {77}

;;;

6TARRED is t he blackness of t he sky;

Wide is t he sweep of t he cold plain
Where good Sir Palamede dot h lie,
Keen on t he Beast -slot once again.

All day he rode; all night he lay

Wit h eyes wide open t o t he st ars,
Seeking in many a secret way
The key t o unlock his prison bars.

Beneat h him, hark! t he marvel sounds!

The Beast t hat quest et h horribly.
As if a t hirt y couple hounds
Are in his belly quest et h he.

Beneat h him? Hearet h he aright ?

He leaps t o’sfeet - a wonder shews:
St eep dips a st airway from t he light
To what obscurit y God knows.

St ill never a t remor shakes his soul

(God praise t hee, knight of adamant !);
He plungers t o t hat gruesome goal
Firm as an old bull-elephant ! {78}

The broad st air winds; he follows it ;

Dark is t he way; t he air is blind;
Black, black t he blackness of t he pit ,
The light long blot t ed out behind!

His sword sweeps out ; his keen glance peers

For some shape glimmering t hrough t he gloom:
Naught , naught in all t hat void appears;
More st ill, more silent t han t he t omb!

Ye now t he good knight is aware

Of some black force, of some dread t hrone,
Wait ing beneat h t hat awful st air,
Beneat h t hat pit of slippery st one.

Yea! t hough he sees not anyt hing,

Nor hears, his subt le sense is ’ware
That , lackeyed by t he devil-king,
The Beast - t he Quest ing Beast - is t here!

So t hough his heart beat s close wit h f ear,

Though horror grips his t hroat , he goes,
Goes on t o meet it , spear t o spear,
As good knight should, t o f ace his foes.

Nay! but t he end is come. Black eart h

Belches t hat peerless Paladin
Up from her gulphs - unt imely birt h!
- Her horror could not hold him in! {79}

Whit e as a corpse, t he hero hails

The dawn, t hat night of fear st ill shaking
His body. All deat h’s doubt assails
Him. Was it sleep or was it waking?

By God, I care not , I! (quod he).

Or wake or sleep, or live or dead,
I will pursue t his myst ery.
So help me Grace of Godlihead!

Ay! wit h t hy wast ed limbs pursue

That subt le Beast home t o his den!
Who know but t hou mayst win at hrough,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen? {80}

;;;,

)ROM God’s sweet air Sir Palamede

Hat h come unt o a demon bog,
A cit y where but rat s may breed

In sewer-st ench and fet id fog.

Wit hin it s heart pale phant oms crawl.
Breat hless wit h foolish hast e t hey j og
And j ost le, all for naught ! They scrawl
Vain t hings all night t hat t hey disown
Ere day. They call and bawl and squall

Hoarse cries; t hey moan, t hey groan. A st one

Hat h bet t er sense! And t hese among
A cabbage-headed god t hey own,

Wit h wandering eye and j abbering t ongue.

He, rot t ing in t hat grimy sewer
And charnel-house of deat h and dung,

Shrieks: How t he air is sweet and pure!

Give me t he ent rails of a frog
And I will t each t hee! Lo! t he lure {81}

Of light ! How lucent is t he fog!

How noble is my cabbage-head!
How sweet ly fragrant is t he bog!

God’s wounds! (Sir Palamedes said),

What have I done t o earn t his port ion?
Must I, t he clean knight born and bred,

Sup wit h t his filt hy t oad-abort ion?

Nat hless he st ayed wit h him awhile,
Lest by disdain his ment ion t orsion

Slip back, or miss t he serene smile

Should crown his quest ; for (as onesait h)
The unknown may lurk wit hin t he vile.

So he who sought t he Beaut eous Breat h,

Desired t he Goodly Gift of Grace,
Went equal int o life and deat h.

But oh! t he foulness of his face!

Not here was anyt hing of wort h;
He t urned his back upon t he place,

Sought t he blue sky and t he green eart h,

Ay! and t he lust ral sea t o cleanse
That filt h t hat st ank about his girt h, {82}
The sores and scabs, t he wart s and wens,
The nameless vermin he had gat hered
In t hose insufferable dens,

The foul diseases he had f at hered.

So now t he quest slips from his brain:
First (Christ !) let me be clean again! {83}

;;;,,

+A! cries t he knight , may pat ient t oil

Of brain dissolve t his cruel coil!
In Afric t hey t hat chase t he ost rich
Clot he t hem wit h feat hers, subt ly foil

It s vigilance, come close, t hen dart

It s deat h upon it . Brave my heart !
Do t hus! And so t he knight disguises
Himself , on hands and knees dot h st art

His hunt , goes quest ing up and down.

So in t he fields t he peasant clown
Flies, shrieking, from t he dreadful figure.
But when he came t o any t own

T hey caged him for a lunat ic.

Quod he: Would God I had t he t rick!
The beast escaped from my devices;
I will t he same. The bars are t hick,

But I am st rong. He wrenched in vain;

Then - what is t his? What wild, sharp st rain
Smit es on t he air? The prison smashes.
Hark! ’t is t he Quest ing Beast again! {84}

Then as he rushes fort h t he not e

Roars from t hat Beast ’s malignant t hroat
Wit h laught er, laught er, laught er, laught er!
The wit s of Palamedes float

In ecst asy of shame and rage.

O Thou! exclaims t he baffled sage;
How should I mat ch Thee? Yet , I will so,
Though Doomisday devour t he Age.

Weeping, and beat ing on his breast ,

Gnashing his t eet h, he st ill confessed
The might of t he dread oat h t hat bound him:
He would not yet give up t he quest .

Nay! while I am, quot h he, t hough Hell

Engulph me, t hough God mock me well,
I follow as I sware; I follow,
Though it be unat t ainable.

Nay, more! Because I may not win,

Is’t wort h man’s work t o ent er in!
The Infinit e wit h might y passion
Hat h caught my spirit in a gin.

Come! since I may not imit at e

The Beast , at least I work and wait .
We shall discover soon or lat e
Which is t he mast er - I or Fat e! {85}

;;;,,,

6,R PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Hat h passed unt o t he t ideless sea,
That t he keen whisper of t he wind
May bring him t hat which never men
Knew - on t he quest , t he quest , rides he!
So long t o seek, so far t o find!

So weary was t he knight , his limbs

Were slack as new-slain dove’s; his knees
No longer gripped t he charger rude.
List less, he aches; his purpose swims
Exhaust ed in t he oily seas
Of laxit y and lassit ude.

The soul subsides; it s serious mot ion

St ill t hrobs; by habit , not by will.
And all his lust t o win t he quest
Is but a passive-mild devot ion.
(Ay! soon t he blood shall run right chill
- And is not deat h t he Lord of Rest ?)

There as he basks upon t he cliff

He yearns t oward t he Beast ; his eyes
Are moist wit h love; his lips are fain {86}
To breat he fond prayers; and (marry!) if
Man’s soul were measured by his sighs
He need not linger t o at t ain.

Nay! while t he Beast squat s t here, above

Him, smiling on him; as he vows
Wonderful deeds and fruit less flowers,
He grows so maudlin in his love
That even t he knaves of his own house
Mock at him in t heir merry hours.

God’s deat h! raged Palamede, not wrot h

But irrit at ed, laugh ye so?
Am I a j ape for scullions?
His curse came in a flaky frot h.
He seized a club, wit h blow on blow
Breaking t he knave’s unreverent sconce!

Thou mock t he Quest ing Beast I chase,

The Quest ing Beast I love? ’Od’s wounds!
Then sudden from t he slave t here brake
A cachinnat ion scant of grace,
As if a t hirt y couple hounds
Were in his belly! Knight , awake!

Ah! well he woke! His love an scorn

Grapple in deat h-t hroe at his t hroat .
Lead me away (quot h he), my men!
Woe, woe is me was ever born
So blind a bat , so gross a goat ,
As Palamede t he Saracen! {87}

;;;,9

6IR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Hat h hid him in an hermit ’s cell
Upon an island in t he fen

Of t hat lone land where Druids dwell.

There came an eagle from t he height
And bade him mount . From dale t o dell

They sank and soared. Last t o t he light

Of t he great sun himself t hey flew,
Piercing t he borders of t he night ,

Passing t he irremeable blue.

Far int o space beyond t he st ars
At last t hey came. And t here he knew

All t he blind reasonable bars

Broken, and all t he emot ions st illed,
And all t he st ains and all t he scars

Left him; sop like a child he t hrilled

Wit h ut most knowledge; all his soul,
Wit h perfect sense and sight fulfilled, {88}

T ouched t he ext reme, t he giant goal!

Yea! all t hings in t hat hour t ranscended,
All power in his sublime cont rol,

All felt , all t hought , all comprehended -

How is it , t hen, t he quest (he sait h)
Is not - at last ! - achieved and ended?

Why t ast e I not t he Bount eous Breat h,

Receive t he Goodly Gift of Grace?
Now, kind king-eagle (by God’s deat h!),

Rest ore me t o mine ancient place!

I am advant aged not hing t hen!
Then swooped he from t he Byss of Space,

And set t he knight amid t he fen.

God! quot h Sir Palamede, t hat I
Who have won nine should fail at t en!

I set my all upon t he die:

There is no f urt her t rick t o t ry.
Call t hrice accurs&#138;d above men
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {89}
 ;;;9

<EA! quot h t he knight , I rede t he spell.

This Beast is t he Unknowable.
I seek in Heaven, I seek in Hell;

Ever he mocks me. Yet , met hinks,

I have t he riddle of t he Sphinx.
For were I keener t han t he lynx

I should not see wit hin my mind

One t hought t hat is not in it s kind
In soot h That Beast t hat lurks behind:

And in my quest his quest ing seems

The aut hent ic echo of my dreams,
The proper t hesis of my t hemes!

I know him? St ill he answers: No!

I know him not ? Maybe - and lo!
He is t he one sole t hing I know!

Nay! who knows not is dif ferent

From him t hat knows. Then be cont ent ;
Thou canst not alt er t he event ! {90}

Ah! what conclusion subt ly draws

From out t his chaos of mad laws?
An I, t he effect , as I, t he cause?

Nay, t he brain reels beneat h it s swell

Of pompous t hought s. Enough t o t ell
That He is known Unknowable!

Thus did t hat knight ly Saracen

In Cant abrig’s miasmal fen
Lect ure t o many learned men.

So clamorous was t heir applause -

His mind (said t hey) is free of flaws:
The Veil of God is t hin as gauze! -

That almost t hey had dulled or drowned

The laught er (in it s belly bound)
Of t hat dread Beast he had not found.

Nat hless - alt hough he would away -

They forced t he lack-luck knight t o st ay
And lect ure many a weary day.

Verily, almost he had caught

The infect ion of t heir cost ive t hought ,
And brought his loyal quest t o naught .

It was by night t hat Palamede

Ran from t hat mildewed, mouldy breed,
Mot h-eat hen dullards run t o seed! {91}

How weak Sir Palamedes grows!

We hear no more of bout s and blows!
His weapons are his t en good t oes!

He t hat was Art hur’s peer, good knight

Proven in many a fought en fight ,
Flees like a felon in t he night !

A y! t his t hy quest is past t he ken

Of t hee and of all mort al men,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {92}

;;;9,

2FT, as Sir Palamedes went

Upon t he quest , he was aware
Of some vast shadow subt ly bent
Wit h his own shadow in t he air.

It had no shape, no voice had it

Wherewit h t o daunt t he eye or ear;
Yet all t he horror of t he pit
Clad it wit h all t he arms of fear.
Moreover, t hough he sought t o scan
Some feat ure, t hough he list ened long,
No shape of God or fiend or man,
No whisper, groan, shriek, scream, or song

Gave him t o know it . Now it chanced

One day Sir Palamedes rode
Through a great wood whose leafage danced
In t he t hin sunlight as it flowed

From heaven. He halt ed in a glade,

Bade his horse crop t he t ender grass;
Put off his armour, soft ly laid
Himself t o sleep t ill noon should pass. {93}

He woke. Before him st ands and grins

A mot ley hunchback. Knave! quot h he,
Hast seen t he Beast ? The quest t hat wins
The loft iest prize of chivalry?

Sir Knight , he answers, hast t hou seen

Aught of t hat Beast ? How knowest t hou, t hen,
That it is ever or hat h been,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen?

Sir Palamede was well awake.

Nay! I deliberat e deep and long,
Yet find no answer fit t o make
To t hee. The weak beat s down t he st rong;

The fool’s cap shames t he helm. But t hou!

I know t hee for t he shade t hat haunt s
My way, set s shame upon my brow,
My purpose dims, my courage daunt s.

Then, since t he t hinker must be dumb,

At least t he knight may knight ly act :
The wisest monk in Christ endom
May have his skull broke by a fact .

Wit h t hat , as a snake st rikes, his sword

Leapt burning t o t he burning blue;
And fell, one swift , assured award,
St abbing t hat hunchback t hrough and t hrough. {94}
St raight he dissolved, a voiceless shade.
Or scot ched or slain, t he knight said t hen,
What odds? Keep bright and sharp t hy blade,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {95}

;;;9,,

6IR PALAMEDE is sick t o deat h!

The st aring eyen, t he haggard face!
God grant t o him t he Beaut eous breat h!
god send t he Goodly Gift of Grace!

There is a whit e cave by t he sea

Wherein t he knight is hid away.
Just ere t he night falls, spiet h he
The sun’s last shaft flicker ast ray.

All day is dark. There, t here he mourns

His wast ed years, his purpose faint .
A million whips, a million scorns
Make t he knight flinch, and st ain t he saint .

For now! what hat h he left ? He feeds

On limpet s and wild root s. What odds?
There is no need a mort al needs
Who hat h loosed man’s hope t o grasp at God’s!

How his head swims! At night what st irs

Above t he faint wash of t he t ide,
And rare sea-birds whose winging whirrs
About t he cliffs? Now good bet ide! {96}

God save t hee, woeful Palamede!

The quest ing of t he Beast is loud
Wit hin t hy ear. By Goddes reed,
t hou has won t he t ilt from all t he crowd!

Wit hin t hy proper bowels it sounds

Might y and musical at need,
As if a t hirt y couple hounds
Quest ed wit hin t hee, Palamede!
Now, t hen, he grasps t he desperat e t rut h
He hat h t oiled t hese many years t o see,
Hat h wast ed st rengt h, hat h wast ed yout h -0-
He was t he Beast ; t he Beast was he!

He rises from t he cave of deat h,

Runs t o t he sea wit h shining face
To know at last t he Bount eous Breat h,
To t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace.

Ah! Palamede, t hou has mist ook!

Thou art t he but t of all confusion!
Not t o be writ t en in my book
Is t his most drast ic disillusion!

So weak and ill was he, I doubt

if he might hear t he royal f east
Of laught er t hat came rolling out
Afar from t hat elusive Beast . {97}

Yet , t hose whit e lips were snapped, like st eel

Upon t he ankles of a slave!
That body broken on t he wheel
Of t ime suppressed t he groan it gave!

Not t here, not here, my quest ! he cried.

Not t hus! Not now! do how and when
Mat t er? I am, and I abide,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {98}

;;;9,,,

6IR PALAMEDE of great renown

rode t hrough t he land upon t he quest ,
His sword loose and his vizor down,
His buckler braced, his lance in rest .

Now, t hen, God save t hee, Palamede!

Who courset h yonder on t he field?
Those silver arms, t hat sable st eed,
The sun and rose upon his shield?
The st range knight spurs t o him. disdain
Curls t hat proud lip as he uplift s
His vizor. Come, an end! In vain,
Sir Fox, t hy t housand t urns and shift s!

S ir Palamede was whit e wit h fear.

Lord Christ ! t hose f eat ures were his own;
His own t hat voice so icy clear
That cut s him, cut s him t o t he bone.

False knight ! false knight ! t he st ranger cried.

Thou bast ard dog, Sir Palamede?
I am t he good knight fain t o ride
Upon t he Quest ing Beast at need. {99}

Thief of my arms, my crest , my quest ,

My name, now meet est t hou t hy shame.
See, wit h t his whip I lash t hee back,
Back t o t he kennel whence t here came

So false a hound. Good knight , in soot h,

Answered Sir Palamede, not I
Presume t o asset t he idlest t rut h;
And here, by t his good ear and eye,

I grant t hou art Sir Palamede.

But - t ry t he first and final t est
If t hou or I be he. Take heed!
He backed his horse, covered his breast ,

Drove his spurs home, and rode upon

That knight . His lance-head fairly st ruck
The barred st rengt h of his morion,
And rolled t he st ranger in t he muck.

Now, by God’s deat h! quot h Palamede,

His sword at work, I will not leave
So much of t hee as God might feed
His sparrows wit h. As I believe

T he sweet Christ ’s mercy shall avail,

so will I not have aught for t hee;
Since every bone of t hee may rail
Against me, crying t reachery. {100}
Thou hast lied. I am t he chosen knight
To slay t he Quest ing beast for men;
I am t he loyal son of light ,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen!

Thou wast t he subt lest fiend t hat yet

hat h crossed my pat h. t o say t hee nay
I dare not , but my sword is wet
Wit h t hy knave’s blood, and wit h t hy clay

Fouled! Dost t hou t hink t o resurrect ?

O sweet Lord Christ t hat savest men!
From all such fiends do t hou prot ect
Me, Palamede t he Saracen! {101}

;;;,;

*REEN and Grecian is t he valley,

Shepherd lads and shepherd lasses
Dancing in a ring
Merrily and musically.
How t heir happiness surpasses
The mere t hrill of spring!

Come (t hey cry), Sir Knight , put by

All t hat weight of shining armour!
Here’s a posy, here’s a garland, t here’s a chain of daisies!
Here’s a charmer! There’s a charmer!
Praise t he God t hat crazes men, t he God t hat raises
All our lives t oe ecst asy!

Sir Palamedes was t oo wise

To mock t heir gent le wooing;
He smiles int o t heir sparkling eyes
While t hey his armour are undoing.
For who (quot h he) may say t hat t his
Is not t he myst ery I miss?

Soon he is gat hered in t he dance,

And smot hered in t he flowers. {102}
A boy’s laugh and a maiden’s glance
Are sweet as paramours!
St ay! is t hee naught some want on wight
May do t o excit e t he glamoured knight ?

Yea! t he song t akes a sea-wild swell;

The dance moves in a myst ic web;
St range light s abound and t errible;
The life t hat flowed is out at ebb.

The light s are gone; t he night is come;

The lads and lasses sink, await ing
Some climax - oh, how t ense and dumb
The expect ant hush int oxicat ing!
Hush! t he heart ’s beat ! Across t he moor
Some dreadful god rides fast , be sure!

The list ening Palamede bit es t hrough

his t hin whit e lips - what hoofs are t hose?
Are t hey t he Quest ? How st ill and blue
The sky is! Hush - God knows - God knows!

Then on a sudden in t he midst of t hem

is a swart god, from hoof t o girdle a goat ,
Upon his brow t he t welve-st ar diadem
And t he King’s Collar fast ened on t his t hroat .

Thrill upon t hrill courset h t hrough Palamede.

Life, live, pure life is bubbling in his blood.
All yout h comes back, all st rengt h, all you indeed
Flaming wit hin t hat t hrobbing spirit -flood! {103
Yet was his heart immeasurably sad,
For t hat no quest ing in his ear he had.

Nay! he saw all. He saw t he Curse

That wrapped in ruin t he World primaeval.
He saw t he unborn Universe,
And all it s gods coeval.
He saw, and was, all t hings at once
In Him t hat is; he was t he st ars,
The moons, t he met eors, t he suns,
All in one net of t riune bars;
Inext ricably one, inevit ably one,
Immeasurable, immut able, immense
Beyond all t he wonder t hat his soul had won
By sense, in spit e of sense, and beyond sense.
Praise God! quot h Palamede, by t his
I at t ain t he ut t ermost of bliss. ...

God’s wounds! but t hat I never sought .

The Quest ing Beast I sware t o at t ain
And all t his miracle is naught .
Off on my t ravels once again!

I keep my yout h regained t o foil

Old Time t hat t ook me in his t oil.
I keep my st rengt h regained t o chase
The beast t hat mocks me now as t hen
Dear Christ ! I pray Thee of Thy grace
Take pit y on t he forlorn case
Of Palamede t he Saracen! {104}

;/

SIR PALAMEDE t he Saracen

Hat h see t he All; his mind is set
To pass beyond t hat great Amen.

Far hat h he wandered; st ill t o fret

His soul against t hat Soul. He breaches
The rhododendron forest -net ,

His body bloody wit h it s leeches.

St ernly he t ravellet h t he crest
Of a great mount ain, far t hat reaches

Toward t he King-snows; t he rains molest

The knight , whit e wast es updriven of wind
In sheet s, in t orrent s, fiend-possessed,

Up from t he st eaming plains of Ind.

They cut his flesh, t hey chill his bones:
Yet he feels naught ; his mind is pinned

To t hat one point where all t he t hrones

Join t o one lion-head of rock,
Towering above all crest s and cones {105}

That crouch like j ackals. St ress and shock

Move Palamede no more. Like fat e
He moves wit h silent speed. They f lock,

The Gods, t o wat ch him. Now abat e

His pulses; he t hreads t hrough t he vale,
And t urns him t o t he might y gat e,

The glacier. Oh, t he flowers t hat scale

t hose sun-kissed height s! The snows t hat crown
The quart s ravines! The clouds t hat veil

The awful slopes! Dear God! look down

And see t his pet t y man move on.
Relent less as Thine own renown,

Careless of praise or orison,

Simply det ermined. Wilt t hou launch
(t his knight ’s presumpt uous head upon)

The devast at ing avalancehe?

He knows t oo much, and cares t oo lit t le!
His wound is more t han Deat h can st aunch.

He can avoid, t hough by one t it t le,

Thy surest shaft ! And now t he knight ,
Breast ing t he crags, may laugh and whit t le

Away t he demon-club whose might

Threat ened him. Now he leaves t he spur;
And eager, wit h a boy’s delight , {106}

T reads t he impending glacier.

Now, now he st rikes t he st eep black ice
That leads t o t he last neck. By Her

That bore t he lord, by what device

May he pass t here? Yet st ill he moves,
Ardent and st eady, as if t he price

Of deat h were less t han life approves,

As if on eagles’ wings he mount ed,
Or as on angels’ wings - or love’s!

So, all t he j ourney he discount ed,

Holding t he goal. Supreme he st ood
Upon t he summit ; dreams uncount ed,

Worlds of sublime beat it ude!

He passed beyond. The All he hat h t ouched,
And dropped t o vile desuet ude.

What lay beyond? What st ar unsmut ched

By being? His poor fingers f umble,
And all t he Naught t heir ardour clut ched,

Like all t he rest , begins t o crumble.

Where is t he Beast ? His bliss exceeded
All t hat bards sing of or priest s mumble;

No man, no God, hat h known what he did.

Only t his baulked him - t hat he lacked
Exact ly t he one t hing he needed. {107}

Faugh! cried t he knight . Thought , word, and act

Confirm me. I have proved t he quest
Impossible. I break t he pact .

Back t o t he gilded halls, confessed

A recreant ! Achieved or not ,
This t ask hat h earned a foison - rest .

In Caerlon and Camelot

Let me embrace my fellow-men!
To buss t he wenches, pass t he pot ,
Is now t he enviable lot
Of Palamede t he Saracen! {108}

;/,

6IR ARTHUR sit s again at feast

Wit hin t he high and holy hall
Of Camelot . From West t o East

The Table Round hat h burst t he t hrall

Of Paynimrie. The goodliest gree
Sit s on t he gay knight s, one and all;

Till Art hur: Of your chivalry,

Knight s, let us drink t he happiness
Of t he one knight we lack (quot h he);

For surely in some sore dist ress

May be Sir Palamede. Then t hey
Rose as one man in glad liesse

To honour t hat great healt h. god’s way

Is not as man’s (quot h Lancelot ).
Yet , may god send him back t his day,

His quest achieve, t o Camelot !

Amen! t hey cried, and raised t he bowl;
When - t he wind rose, a blast as hot {109}

As t he simoom, and fort h did roll

A sudden t hunder. St ill t hey st ood.
Then came a bugle-blast . The soul

O f each knight st irred. Wit h vigour rude,

The blast t ore down t he t apest ry
That hid t he door. All ashen-hued

The knight s laid hand t o sword. But he

(Sir Palamedes) in t he gap
Was found - God knowet h - bit t erly

W eeping. Cried Art hur: St range t he hap!

My knight , my dearest knight , my friend!
What gift had Fort une in her lap

Like t hee? Em,brace me! Rat her end

Your garment s, if you love me, sire!
(Quod he). I am come unt o t he end.

All mine int ent and my desire,

My quest , mine oat h - all, all is done.
Burn t hem wit h me in fat al fire!

Fir I have failed. All ways, each one

I st rove in, mocked me. If I quailed
Or shirked, God knows. I have not won:

T hat and no more I know. I failed.

King Art hur f ell a-weeping. Then
Merlin uprose, his face unveiled; {110}

Thrice cried he pit eously t hen

Upon our Lord. Then shook t his head
Sir Palamede t he Saracen,

As knowing not hing might best ead,

When lo! t here rose a monst er moan,
A hugeous cry, a quest ing dread,

As if (God’s deat h!) t here coursed alone

The Beast , wit hin whose belly sounds
That marvellous music monot one

As if a t hirt y couple hounds

Quest ed wit hin him. Now, by Christ
And by His pit iful five wounds! -

Even as a lover t o his t ryst ,

That Beast came quest ing in t he hall,
One f lame of gold and amet hyst ,

Bodily seen t hen of t hem all.

t hen came he t o Sir Palamede,
Nest ling t o him, as sweet and small

As a young babe clings at it s need

To t he whit e bosom of it s mot her,
As Christ clung t o t he gibbet -reed!

Then every knight t urned t o his brot her,

Sobbing and signing for great gladness;
And, as t hey looked on one anot her, {111}

Surely t here st ole a subt le madness

Int o t heir veins, more st rong t han deat h:
For all t he root s of sin and sadness

Were plucked. As a flower perishet h,

So all sin died. And in t hat place
All t hey did know t he Beaut eous Breat h

And t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace.

Then fell t he night . Above t he baying
Of t he great Beast , t hat was t he bass

T o all t he harps of Heaven a-playing,

There came a solemn voice (not one
But was upon his knees in praying

And glorifying God). The Son

Of God Himself - men t hought - spoke t hen.
Arise! brave soldier, t hou hast won

The quest not given t o mort al men.

Arise! Sir Palamede Adept ,
Christ ian, and no more Saracen!

On wake or sleeping, wise, inept ,

St ill t hou didst seek. Those foolish ways
On which t hy folly st umbled, leapt ,

All led t o t he one goal. Now praise

Thy Lord hat He hat brought t hee t hrough
To win t he quest ! The good knight lays {112}

His hand upon t he Beast . Then blew

Each angel on his t rumpet , t hen
All Heaven resounded t hat it knew

Sir Palamede t he Saracen

Was mast er! Through t he domes of deat h,
Through all t he might y realms of men

And spirit s breat hed t he Beaut eous Breat h:

They t ast e t he Goodly Gift of Grace.
- Now ’t is t he chronicler t hat sait h:

O ur Saviour grant in lit t le space

That also I, even I, be blest
Thus, t hough so evil is my case -

Let t hem t hat read my rime at t est

The same sweet unct ion in my pen -
That writ es in pure blood of my breast ;

For t hat I figure unt o men

The st ory of my proper quest
As t hine, first East ern in t he West ,
Sir Palamede t he Saracen! {113}