THE EQUINOX Vol. I. No. IV 3rd part

June 10, 1990 e.v. key entry by
Bill Heidrick, T.G. of O.T.O. --- needs further proof reading (c) O.T.O. disk 3 of 3

O.T.O.
P.O.Box 430
Fairfax, CA 94930
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(415) 454-5176 ---- Messages only.

Pages in the original are marked thus at the bottom: {page number} Comments and descriptions are also set off by curly brackets {} Comments and notes not in the original are identified with the initials of the source: AC note = Crowley note. WEH note = Bill Heidrick note, etc. Descriptions of illustrations are not so identified, but are simply in curly brackets.

(Addresses and invitations below are not current but copied from the original text of the early part of the 20th century)

"							     "SPECIAL SUPPLEMENT"

			     THE HIGH HISTORY OF

			      GOOD SIR PALAMEDES

			      THE SARACEN KNIGHT

			     AND OF HIS	FOLLOWING

			    OF THE QUESTING BEAST
				      1
			     BY	ALEISTER CROWLEY

			  RIGHTLY SET FORTH IN RIME

		      TO ALLAN BENNETT

"Bhikkhu Ananda Metteyya"

      my good knight comrade in	the quest, I dedicate this
      imperfect	account	of it, in some small recognition of
		   his suggestion of its form.

MANDALAY, "November" 1905

1WEH NOTE: This work is read to best effect after Crowley's " "Confessions". The sections are metaphoric accounts of Crowley's own search for enlightenment, sometimes with changed details or settings. "E.g.", the general focus on Arthur that comes in at III should be taken to represent Crowley's lasting but frustrated desire to serve and save "all the Britains". Acts of killing by the principal character represent renunciations of attachment.

				   ARGUMENT

i. Sir Palamede, the Saracen knight, riding on the shore of Syria, findeth his father's corpse, around which an albatross circleth. He approveth the vengeance of his peers.
ii. On the shore of Arabia he findeth his mother in the embrace of a loathly negro beneath blue pavilions. Her he slayeth, and burneth all that encampment.
iii. Sir Palamede is besieged in his castle by Severn mouth, and his wife and son are slain.
iv. Hearing that his fall is to be but the prelude to an attack of Camelot, he maketh a desperate night sortie, and will traverse the wilds of Wales. v. At the end of his resources among the Welsh mountains, he is compelled to put to death his only remaining child. By this sacrifice he saves the world of chivalry.
vi. He having become an holy hermit, a certain dwarf, splendidly clothed, cometh to Arthur's court, bearing tidings of a Questing Beast. The knights fail to lift him, this being the test of worthiness. vii. Lancelot findeth him upon Scawfell, clothed in his white beard. he returneth, and, touching the dwarf but with his finger, herleth him to the heaven.
viii. Sir Palamede, riding forth on the quest, seeth a Druid worship the sun upon Stonehenge. He rideth eastward, and findeth the sun setting in the west. Furious he taketh a Viking ship, and by sword and whip fareth seaward. ix. Coming to India, he learneth that It glittereth. Vainly fighting the waves,the leaves, and the snows, he is swept in the Himalayas as by an avalanche into a valley where dwell certain ascetics, who pelt him with their eyeballs.
x. Seeking It as Majesty, he chaseth an elephant in the Indian jungle. The elephant escapeth; but he, led to Trichinopoli by an Indian lad, seeth an elephant forced to dance ungainly before the Mahalingam. xi. A Scythian sage declareth that It transcendeth Reason. Therefore Sir Palamede unreasonably decapitateth him. xii. An ancient hag prateth of It as Evangelical. Her he hewed in pieces. {v}
xiii. At Naples he thinketh of the Beast as author of Evil, because Free of Will. The Beast, starting up, is slain by him with a poisoned arrow; but at the moment of Its death It is reborn from the knight's own belly. xiv. At Rome he meeteth a red robber in a Hat, who speaketh nobly of It as of a king-dove-lamb. He chaseth and slayeth it; it proves but a child's toy. xv. In a Tuscan grove he findeth, from the antics of a Satyr, that the Gods sill dwell with men. Mistaking orgasm for ecstasty, he is found ridiculous. xvi. Baiting for It with gilded corn in a moonlit vale of Spain, he findeth the bait stolen by bermin.
xvii. In Crete a metaphysician weaveth a labyrinth. Sir Palamede compelleth him to pursue the quarry in this same fashion. Running like hippogriffs, they plunge over the precipice; and the hermit, dead, appears but a mangy ass. Sir Palamede, sore wounded, is borne by fishers to an hut. xviii. Sir Palamede noteth the swiftness of the Beast. He therefore climbeth many mountains of the Alps. Yet can he not catch It; It outrunneth him easily, and at last, stumbling, he falleth. xix. Among the dunes of Brittany he findeth a witch dancing and conjuring, until she disappeareth in a blaze of light. He then learneth music, from a vile girl, until he is as skilful as Orpheus. In Paris he playeth in a public place. The people, at first throwing him coins, soon desert him to follow a foolish Egyptian wizard. No Beast cometh to his call. xx. He argueth out that there can be but on Beast. Following single tracks, he at length findeth the quarry, but on pursuit It eldueth hi by multiplying itself. This on the wide plains of France. xxi. He gathereth an army sufficient to chase the whole herd. In England's midst they rush upon them; but the herd join together, leading on the kinghts, who at length rush together into a "mle," wherein all but Sir Palamede are slain, while the Beast, as ever, standeth aloof, laughing. xxii. He argueth Its existence from design of the Cosmos, noting that Its tracks form a geometrical figure. But seeth that this depends upon his sense of geometry; and is therefore no proof. Meditating upon this likeness to himself --- Its subjectivity, in short --- he seeth It in the Blue Lake. Thither plunging, all is shattered.
xxiii. Seeking It in shrines he findeth but a money-box; while they that helped him (as they said) in his search, but robbed him. xxiv. Arguing Its obscurity, he seeketh It within the bowels of Etna, cutting off all avenues of sense. His own thoughts pursue him into madness. {vi}
xxv. Upon the Pacific Ocean, he, thinking that It is not-Self, throweth himself into the sea. But the Beast setteth him ashore. xxvi. Rowed by Kanakas to Japan, he praiseth the stability of Fuji-Yama. But, an earthquake arising, the pilgrims are swallowed up. xxvii. Upon the Yang-tze-kiang he contemplateth immortal change. Yet, perceiving that the changes themselves constitute stability, he is again baulked, and biddeth his men bear him to Egypt. xxviii. In an Egyptian temple he hath performed the Bloody Sacrifice, and cursed Osiris. Himself suffering that curse, he is still far from the Attainment.
xxix. In the land of Egypt he performeth many miracles. But from the statue of Memnon issueth the questing, and he is recalled from that illusion. xxx. Upon the plains of Chaldea he descendeth into the bowels of the earth, where he beholdeth the Visible Image of the soul of Nature for the Beast. Yet Earth belcheth him forth.
xxxi. In a slum city he converseth with a Rationalist. Learning nothing, nor even hearing the Beast, he goeth forth to cleanse himself. xxxii. Seeking to imitate the Beast, he goeth on all-fours, questing horribly. The townsmen cage him for a lunatic. Nor can he imitate the elusiveness of the Beast. Yet at one note of that questing the prison is shattered, and Sir Palamede rusheth forth free. xxiii. Sir Palamede hath gone to the shores of the Middle Sea to restore his health. There he practiseth devotion to the Beast, and becometh maudlin and sentimental. His knaves mocking him, he beateth one sore; from whose belly issueth the questing.
xxiv. Being retired into an hermitage in Fenland, he traverseth space upon the back of an eagle. He knoweth all things --- save only It. And incontinent beseedheth the eagle to set him down again. xxxv. He lectureth upon metaphysics --- for he is now totally insane --- to many learned monks of Cantabrig. They applaud him and detain him, though he hath heard the question and would away. But so feeble is he that he fleeth by night.
xxxvi. It hath often happened to Sir Palamede that he is haunted by a shadow, the which he may not recognise. But at last, in a sunlit wood, this is discovered to be a certain hunchback, who doubteth whether there be at all any Beast or any quest, or if the whole life of Sir Palamede be not a vain illusion. Him, without seeing to conquer with words, he slayeth incontinent. xxxvii. In a cave by the sea, feeding on limpets androots, Sir Palamede abideth, sick unto death. Himseemeth the Beast questeth within his own bowels; he is the {vii} Beast. Standing up, that he may enjoy the reward, he findeth another answer to the riddle. Yet abideth in the quest. xxxviii. Sir Palamede is confronted by a stranger knight, whose arms are his own, as also his features. This knight mocketh Sir OPalamede for an impudent pretender, and impersonator of the chosen knight. Sir Palamede in all humility alloweth that there is no proof possible, and offereth ordeal of battle, in which the stranger is slain. Sir Palamede heweth him into the smallest dust without pity.
xxxix. In a green valley he obtaineth the vision of Pan. Thereby he regaineth all that he had expended of strength and youth; is gladdened thereat, for he now devoteth again his life to the quest; yet more utterly cast down than ever, for that this supreme vision is not the Beast. xl. Upon the loftiest summit of a great mountain he perceiveth Naught. Even this is, however, not the Beast.
xli. Returning to Camelot to announce his failure, he maketh entrance into the King's hall, whence he started out upon the quest. The Beast cometh nestling to him. All the knights attain the quest. The voice of Christ is heard: "well done." He sayeth that each failure is a step in the Path. The poet prayeth success therein for himself and his readers.

{viii}

			       THE HIGH	HISTORY

				   OF GOOD

		   THE SARACEN KNIGHT; AND OF HIS FOLLOWING

				      OF

			      THE QUESTING BEAST

					      I

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       He had slain a thousand evil men

	       Armed to	the teeth, the glittering kinght

	       His silver arms one lake	of light,

	       How still the blue enamoured sea

	       The eternal roll	eternally

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen

	       A sight abhorred	of gods	and men,

	       The dead	man's tongue was torn away;

	       There flapped upon the putrid prey
		 A carrion, screaming albatross.       {3}

	       So halted he his	horse, and bent

	       That stared to God, whose ardour	sent

	       Then like a statue still	he sate;

	       While round them	flapped	insatiate

	       But the coldest horror drave the	light

	       Thy blood, O brow whereon that night

	       For Palamede those eyes beheld

	       On those	dead brows a fate he spelled

	       He knew his father.  Still he sate,

	       While round them	flapped	insatiate

	       The knight approves the justice done,

	       While yet the forehead of the son
		 Stands	beaded with an icy sweat.	     {4}

	       God's angel, standing sinister,

	       "Who wins the spur shall	ply the	spur

	       He gave the sign	of malison

	       And ever	by the sea rode	on

					     II

	       BEHOLD!	Arabia's burning shore

	       Lord of a legion	rides to war

	       The Paynim fly; his troops delight

	       Following exultant into fight

	       Now when	a year and day are done

	       Of blue pavilions in the	sun,

	       Forward he spurs; his armour gleams;

	       Above the lordly	silk there streams

	       Aflame, a bridegroom to his spouse,

	       Some scion of his holy house,
		 Or germane to his royal race.	    {6}

	       But oh! the eyes	of shame!  Beneath

	       There sport a band with wand and	wreath,

	       And in the centre is a sight

	       A recreant Abyssianian knight

	       How black and swinish is	the knave!

	       Her trilling laugh, her gesture suave,

	       She looks and laughs upon the knight,

	       Draining	the dregs of that black	blight

	       God! what a glance!  Sir	Palamede

	       His mother it is	in very	deed

	       His mother it his, that pure and	pale

	       The holy	image he would veil

	       She knows him, and black	fear bedim

	       The blue-veined breasts that suckled him

	       Weeping she bares the holy womb!

	       And reads irrevocable doom

	       He winds	his horn: his warriors pour

	       The sunset stains their hideous war

	       He winds	his horn; the night-stars leap

	       While answering flames illume the deep,

	       Silent and stern	the northward way

	       Staggers	through	black to rose and grey

					     III

	       THERE is	a rock by Severn mouth

	       Fronting	the blue impassive South

	       Oh! high	above the envious sea

	       There, ill at heart, the	chivalry

	       Now comes irruption from	the fold

	       The good	knight strikes his deadly stroke;

	       But day by day the heathen hordes.

	       A myriad	myriad bows and	swords,

	       Soon by an arrow	from the sea

	       His son,	in sally fighting free,

	       But day by day the foes increase,

	       Laughs the unshaken fortalice;

	       Grimmer than heather hordes can scowl,

	       He passes like a	midnight owl,

	       The knights and squires of Palamede

	       Though sharp and	swift the archers speed

	       Their numbers thin; their strength decays;

	       These are the dread deciduous days

	       He hears	the horrid laugh that rings

	       The cruel mouths	of murderous kings

	       No sooner shall the heroes die

	       The heathen turns his raving eye

	       King Arthur in ignoble sloth

	       Forgetful of his	knightly oath,

	       Befooled	and cuckolded, the king

	       And on his life the hinges swing

	       'Sblood!	shall it sink, and rise	no more,

	       That is thy question, warrior
		 Sir Palamede the Saracen!     {11}

					     IV

	       Now, with two score of men in life

	       Resolves	one last heroic	strife,

	       At dead of night, a moonless night,

	       In dancing dragons to the fight

	       Whom God	shall spare, ride, ride! (so springs

	       On honour's steed with honour's wings

	       Then to the fury	of the blast

	       The fatal die is	surely cast.

	       Hail! horror of the midnight surge!

	       The doubtful gleam of swords that urge

	       Though one by one the heroes fall,

	       And knightly cry	and comrade-call

	       Now, now	they land, a dwindling crew;

	       They cleave their blood-bought avenue,

	       Ah! but dawn's dreadful front uprears!

	       While many a myriad heathen spears

	       Falls thy last comrade at thy feet,

	       Tearing the savage from his seat,

	       He gallops raging through the press:

	       There madness gleams, there masterless

	       The shrink, he gallops.	Closely	clings

	       Heeds nought, but gallops wide, and sings

Sir Palamded the Saracen
Rides like a centaur mad with war;

	       He sabres many a	million	men,

	       Before him lies the untravelled land

	       A desert	by a wizard banned,

	       Nor grass, nor corn, delight the	vales;

	       Black rain, grey	mist, white wrath of gales,

	       NOr shines the sun; nor moon, nor star

	       Nor day,	nor night, dispute the scaur:

	       Black llyns, grey rocks,	white hills of snow!

	       This is no way for men to go

	       Despair,	the world upon his speed,

	       Whom hunger hunts) the man at need,

					      V

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       To save the world of goodly men,

	       Three days: the black horse drops and dies.

	       The beast a meal.  With dreadful	eyes

	       Six days: the gaunt and gallant knight

	       Where are the antient speed and might

	       Nine days; they stumble on; no more

	       Still hangs the mist, and still before

	       Twelve days: the	end.  Afar he spies

	       A little	splash of sunlight lies

	       His strength is done; he	cannot stir.

	       His eyes	are blank; he looks at her;

	       To save the world --- three days	away!

	       And knighthood's	life in	his ---	to-day!	---

	       Will he die there, his task undone?

	       He cries	against	the impassive sun:

	       When, with the bitterness of death

	       The piteous passage of her breath.

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen.

	       He plunges to the land of men

	       Who is the naked	man that rides

	       His face	like Hell's?  What fury	guides

	       Who is the naked	man that spurs

	       His face	like Christ's?	what glory stirs

	       Sir Arthur arms him, makes array

	       And bids	them follow and	obey

					     VI

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       Is hidden from the eyes of men.

	       Sir Arthur sits again at	feast.

	       Its fame	revives	from west to east.

	       Now, following Fortune's	whirling-wheel,

	       All cased in damnascend steel.

	       A sceptre and a golden ball

	       But on his shoulders drapes a pall

	       Of velvet flowing sably down

	       Now doth	the king of high renown

	       Demand him of his dignity.

	       A quest of loftiest chivalry.  {18}

	       Quod he:	"By Goddes holy	spell,

	       Nor so divine a miracle.

	       A certain beast there runs alone,

	       A hugeous cry, a	monster	moan,

	       As if a thirty couple hounds

	       (I swear	it by His holy wounds

	       And by His lamentable death,

	       That he shall know the Beauteous	Breath

	       And taste the Goodly Gift of Grace

	       Then Arthur sterte up from his place,

	       And sterte up boldly all	the rest,

	       But now the dwarf doth beat his breast,

	       And speak on this wise to the king,

	       Who with	his hands the dwarf should bring

	       By might	one span from off the ground.

	       The knights so strong: the walls	resound	{19}

	       With laughter rattling round the	hall.

	       And may not budge the dwarf at all.

	       Then Lancelot sware by Goddes reed,

	       His nose	and mouth brake	out a-bleed;

	       Nor moved he thus the dwarf.  From first

	       And all their malice had	the worst,

	       Till strong Sir Bors his	prowess	played ---

	       Now once	Sir Bors had been betrayed

	       To Paynim; him in traitrise caught,

	       To tear asunder,	as they	thought,

	       The paladin of Arthur's peers.

	       Of three, and on	the fourth he rears

	       His bulk, and rides away.  Divine

	       To stir the fatuous dwarf, malign

	       Who smiles!  But	Boors on Arthur	rails

	       "By Goddes death" (quod he), "what ails {20}

	       Us marsh-lights to forget the sun?

	       Worthy to win this benison,

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen."

	       Sir Lancelot girt him there and then

	       To ride to that enchanted ground

	       Of Palamedes might be found.2	       {21}

2WEH NOTE: See "Confessions". This refers to that portion of Crowley's life spent at Boleskine as Alastor, the "Spirit of Solitude".

					     VII

	       BEHOLD Sir Lancelot of the Lake

	       How breath must fail and	muscle ache

	       Before he reach the icy fold

	       Within its hermitage may	hold.

	       At last he cometh to a den

	       Remote from every haunt of men,

	       From every haunt	of life	afar.

	       Sitting as steadfast as a star.

	       Scarcely	he knew	the knight indeed,

	       White as	the streams of snow that feed

	       The lake	of Gods	and men	revered

	       So muttered he a	darkling weird,	 {22}

	       And smote his bosom murderous.

	       His eyes	were wild and dull; but	thus

	       Sir Lancelot spake: "Thy	deeds atone

	       That "While the land was	overgrown

	       With giant, fiend, and ogre burned

	       Are broke, and men to virtue turned:

	       Therefore I sit upon the	scars

	       Sits in the company of the stars!"

	       Then Lancelot bade this deed be done,

	       Which when he spoke that	holy one

	       Rose up,	and gat	him to the east

	       Unto the	palace and the feast

	       He put his littlest finger to

	       Piercing	the far	eternal	blue

	       Beyond the reach	of song	or prayer.

	       His nakedness, his horrent hair,	  {23}

	       His nails, and made his penance end,

	       Arming himself, his life	to spend

	       IN vigil	cold and wandering bold,

	       Seeking one purpose to behold,

	       And holding ever	that aloft,

	       So thus his hermit habit	doffed

					    VIII

	       KNOW ye where Druid dolmens rise

	       Thither Sir Palamedes plies

	       The spur, and shakes the	rattling rein.

	       None answer.  Is	the quest in vain?

	       With oaken crown	there comes a priest

	       And worships at the gilded East.

	       Ay! thither ride!  The dawn beyond

	       He rode as he were wood or fond,

	       Until at	night behoves him rest.

	       Out on the hills	toward the West!

	       With aimless fury hot and blind

	       He slew the rover, and inclined	{25}

	       The seamen to his stinging whip.

	       Thy reckless oars in ocean dip,

					     IX

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       Unto the	smooth and swarthy men

	       That haunt the evil shore of Hind:

	       "Ay! Ay!" their cunning sages grinned:

	       "It shines!  It shines!	Guess thou the rest!

	       Sir Palamede his	way addressed

	       Unto the	woods: they blaze and glow;

	       His sword lays many a flower low

	       That glittering gladdened in the	glade.

	       And to the sea his traces laid,

	       Where many a wavelet on the glass

	       His futile feet in fury pass,   {27}

	       Until one billow	curls to leap,

	       Half drowned.  O	fool! his God's	asleep,

	       His armour in illusion's	war

	       And courage vain.  Yet ardours pour

	       Through every artery.  The knight

	       Crowned with illimitable	light,

	       And there in constant war abides,

	       Smiting until the vernal	tides

	       Of earth	leap high; the steady flow

	       They slide, they	hurl the knight	below.

	       Sir Palamede the	mighty falls

	       A bearded crew of monachals

	       Asleep in various visions spelt

	       But when	a foreigner they smelt

	       They drive him from their holy den,

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen.3   {28}

3WEH NOTE: In other words, when Crowley went searching for an eastern master in and about the Indian sub-continent, the local teachers just stared at him until he went away.

					      X

	       Now findeth he, as all alone

	       The mighty trail	of some	unknown,

	       So followeth he the forest ways,

	       And through the hot and dripping	days

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen

	       Remote from any mart of men,

	       The lone	and lordly elephant.

	       "O amorous!  O militant!

	       Thus worshipped he, and stalking	stole

	       The scent awakes	the uneasy soul

	       The monster from	the oozy bed,

	       --- but now a staring savage head

	       This was	a naked	Indian,

	       The fooled and disappointed man,

	       Here were the brazen towers, and	here

	       Where to	a tall black stone they	rear

	       The God they deem in sensual joy

	       To please his leisure hours a boy

	       So majesty to ridicule

	       Makes off that strong, persistent fool

					     XI

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       Sith he alone of	mortal men

	       Can help	him, if	a mortal can.

	       Wherefore he makes a caravan,

	       And finds him.  When his	prayers	invoke

	       "This Beast is he of whom there spoke

	       The prophets of the Golden Age:

	       Sir Palamede in bitter rage

	       Sterte up: "Is this the fool, 'Od wot,

	       From castellated	Camelot?"

	       The sage	with eyes of burning flame

	       Ay! for with folly travelleth shame,  {31}

	       And thereto at the end is Hell

	       It is a thing impossible."

	       Sir Palamede his	pulses pause.

	       "That Palamede is wroth,	and draws

	       His sword, decapitating thee.

	       This deed of blood must surely be."

	       With that he suddenly besprent

	       And laughting in	his woe	he went

	       Unto a further field and	flood,

	       That like a windy moon did scud

	       Before him, winking eyes	of red

	       What cared for living or	for dead

					     XII

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       A woman clucking	like a hen

	       She rees	him in ungainly	rede

	       Old pagan fables	run to seed!

	       So doth the Head	that jabbers fast

	       Out sweeps the sword ---	the blade hath passed

	       "This chatter lends to Thought a	zest"

	       The addled egg in Nature's nest!"

	       He was so sick and ill at ease

	       Nay! let	him seek new lands and seas,

	       {34}

					    XIII

	       SIR PALAMEDE is come anon

	       A mountain towers thereupon,
	       Wherein some fiend of ages gone

	       Is whelmed by God, yet from his breast

	       Hereby Sir Palamede his quest
	       Pursues withouten let or	rest.

	       Seeing the evil mountain	be,

	       He knows	the Questing Beast runs	free ---
	       Author of Evil, then, is	he!

	       Whereat immediate resounds

	       There quest a thirty couple hounds
	       Within its belly	as it bounds.

	       Lifting his eyes, he sees at last

	       Ever it courseth	far and	fast.
	       Sir Palamede is sore aghast,  {35}

	       But plucking up his will, doth launch

	       It fareth ever sure and staunch,
	       And smiteth him upon the	haunch.

	       Then as Sir Palamede overhauls

	       Staggers, and final down	it falls.
	       Triumph!	 Gape wide, ye golden walls!

	       Lift up your everlasting	doors,

	       Down on the prey!  The life-blood pours:
	       The poison works: the breath implores

	       Its livelong debt from heart and	brain.

	       The gallant lungs gasp loud in vain:
	       Thy life	is spilt upon the plain.

	       Sir Palamede is stricken	numb

	       Sees blackness gather.  Blank and dumb,
	       The good	knight sees a thin breath come

	       Out of his proper mouth,	and dart

	       Sure by some black magician art
	       Shape ever closer like an hart:	 {36}

	       While such a questing there resounds

	       Or as a thirty couple hounds
	       Are in its belly	as it bounds!

	       Full sick at heart, I ween, was then

	       The butt	of lewd	and puny men,
	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen.  {37}

					     XIV

	       NORTHWARD the good knight gallops fast,

	       When rose that Vision of	the past,

	       There in	the broken Forum sat
	       A red-robed robber in a Hat.

	       "Priest,	for the	dove on	Ararat

	       "I know thy quest.  Seek	on in vain

	       Life springeth out of divers pains.

	       The Questing Beast is like a king
	       In face,	and hath a pigeon's wing

	       Of bloody white,	a lamb's in spring.

	       The Knight spurs	on, and	soon espies

	       he hears	the horrid questing rise

	       Too easy	task!  The charger gains
	       Stride after stride with	little pains

	       He stabs	the lamb, and splits the brains

	       He clips	the wing and pares the claw ---

	       To wondering ribaldry his awe?

					     XV

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       Where nymphs abide, and Pagan men.

	       How warm	a throb	from Venus stirs
	       The pulses of her worshippers!

	       Nor shall the Tuscan God	be found

	       His perfume shall delight the ground,

	       In darkling grove and glimmering	shrine ---
	       O ply the kiss and pour the wine!

	       Sir Palamede is fairly come

	       Where all the Voice of Time is dumb:

	       He seeth	a satyr	fondly dote
	       And languish on a swan-soft goat.

	       Then he in mid-caress desires

	       "We burn," qouth	he, "no	futile fires,

	       Nor penance vain, nor fatuous prayers ---
	       The Gods	are ours, and we are theirs."

	       Sir Palamedes plucks the	pipe

	       So soft and warm, so red	and ripe,

	       In eager	and voluptuous strain,
	       While grows upon	the sounding plain

	       A gallop, and a questing	turned

	       Sir Palamede with pleasure burned,

	       That on the altar sneered and leered
	       With loose red lips behind his beard.

	       Sir Palamedes and the Beast

	       Until the gilding of the	East

	       And still Sir Palamede believed
	       His holy	quest to be achieved!

	       But now the dawn	from glowing gates

	       The Beast stands	off and	cachinnates.

	       As suddenly Hell's own disgust
	       Eats up the joy he had of lust.

	       The brutal glee his folly took

	       Off bolts the Beast: the	earth is shook

	       As if a thirty couple hounds
	       Are in its belly	as it bounds!

	       The peasants gather to deride

	       Ashamed and scorned on every side,

	       The laughing-stock of beasts and	men,
	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen.  {42}

					     XVI

	       WHERE shafts of moonlight splash	the vale,

	       Sir Palamede, with passion pale,

	       And haggard from	his broken brains.

	       A mossy mound where dainty grains

	       Of gilded corn their beauty spill

	       Of Palamede his archer skill.

	       All might he sits, with ardour strange

	       Aye things the luck one day must	change,

	       Though sense and	skill he laughs	to scorn.

	       In sable	silence	on the corn.

	       They sport their	square or shovel hats,

	       Innumerable as summer gnats  {43}

	       Buzzing some streamlet through a	wood.

	       And mutters maledictions	rude,

	       Seeing his quarry far and loth

	       Now, careless of	the knightly oath,

	       The sun pours down his eastern gate.

	       Coursing	afar, afoam at fate

					    XVII

	       SIR PALAMEDE hath told the tale

	       How all his ventures nought avail,

	       And all his hopes dissolve in rage.

	       "And by thy venerable age

	       I charge	thee this my riddle ree."

	       "This task is easy unto me!

	       Know then the Questing Beast aright!

	       And one with one	is two,	Sir Knight!

	       Yet these are one in two, and none

	       Confounds their persons.	 Rightly run

	       Their attributes: immeasurable,

	       Unspeakable, inaudible, {45}

	       Intangible, ingustable,

	       Invariable, implacable,

	       Invincible, insciable,

	       Inequilegijurable,

	       Immamemimomummable.

	       Places, or persons, plumes, or pell,

	       Having nor lungs	nor lights nor hearts,

	       Be he accursd that disparts

	       Them now, or seemeth so to do!

	       Him will	I hand,	or saw him through,

	       Or burn with fire, who doubts upon

	       The holy	word otototon."

	       The poor	Sir Palamedes quells

	       "How may	I catch	the Beast?" he yells.

	       The smiling sage	rebukes	his fears:

	       By simple faith the Beast appears.  {46}

	       By simple faith,	not heathen might,

	       Then quoth that melancholy wight:

	       "I will believe!"  The hermit blessed

	       Appears the Beast.  "To thee the	rest!"

	       He cries, to urge the good knight on.

	       The hermit by the woebegone

	       Bear of him; then away he rips,

	       Where down the sun in splendour slips,

	       And where the quarry of the quest

	       Like men	pursued, or swine possessed,

	       Over the	dizzy Cretan cliffs

	       He sees in no dim hieroglyphs,

	       In knowledge easy to amass,

	       Once dead is like a mangy ass.

	       Bruised,	broken,	but not	bound to death,

	       To bear him.  Presently he saith:  {47}

	       "Bear me	to some	remotest den

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen."   {48}

					    XVIII

	       SIR PALAMEDES for a space

	       "I lack the quarry's awful pace"

	       (Quod he); "my limbs are	slack as lead."

	       The castles where the pennons red

	       Of dawn illume their dreadful peaks.

	       Adown the winding clefts	and creeks:

	       From hideous mouths their venom boils.

	       Their malice by his valour foils,

	       Climbing	aloft by bays and capes

	       The loathly sprites, the	misty shapes

	       Of monster brutes that lurk aloft.

	       His heart revives: despair is doffed {49}

	       And eager hope in brilliance burns

	       As fast he flies, the snow he spurns.

	       Ah! what	a youth	and strength he	vows

	       And now the horrid height allows

	       His mastery: day	by day from crest

	       His feet: his body knows	not rest,

	       Until with magic	speed they ply

	       In one day's march the galaxy

	       Of Europe's starry mountain mass.

	       The Beast sterte	up.  Sir Knight, Alas!

	       Day after day they race,	nor rest

	       Then doth the Questing Marvel crest

	       The ridge: the knight is	well outrun.

	       Like some lewd comet at the sun,

	       Around the panting paladin

	       Yet, knowing that he may	not win,  {50}

	       He strains and strives in very deed,

	       The hero, that he bursts	a-bleed,

	       And sanguine from his bearded lips

	       The Beast is gone: the hero slips

	       Down to the valley: he forsakes

	       In all his body burns and aches)

	       By speed	to attain the dear Unknown,

	       Yet from	that brain may spring full-grown

					     XIX

	       THE knight hath found a naked girl

	       She spinneth in a mystic	whirl,

	       And hath	a bagpipe in her hand,

	       The while her maddening saraband

	       She plies, and with discordant tones

	       She gathers wreckage-wood, and bones

	       Of seamen, jetsam of the	place,

	       She dances, bounding into space

	       Like an inflated	ass's skin.

	       So that the tears of toil begin

	       To dew her breasts with ardent pearls.

	       The bagpipe ever	louder skirls,	{52}

	       Until the shapes	of death advance

	       And wailing o'er	the wide expanse

	       Of sand,	the gibbering, mewing crowd.

	       Till, like the horror of	a cloud

	       Wrapping	the flaming sun	with rose,

	       Then doth he must thereat morose,

	       When in one wild	cascade	of light

	       Down flaps the loathly wing of night.

	       He sees the lonely Breton shores

	       See how she shrieking soars and soars

	       Into the	starless, stormy skies.

	       How music's mellowing artifice

	       May bid the breast of nature burn

	       So now his sounding courses turn

	       To find an instrument divine

	       How glitter green his gleeful eyne {53}

	       When, where the mice and	lice infest

	       Bearing a baby at her breast,

	       Drunk and debauched, one	solid stench,

	       'Boardeth her, nor doth baulk nor blench,

	       And long	abideth	brute by brute

	       Until his melodies uproot

	       The oaks, lure lions from their dens,

	       Of serpents and of Saracens.

	       Thus then equipped, he quits the	quean,

	       Calls up	with music wild	and keen

	       The Questing Marvel to his side.

	       About his lonely	stance abide:

	       Making their holiday, they joke

	       Their clattering	coppers	in his poke.

	       so day and night	they come and go,

	       Nor doth	that laughing people know  {54}

	       How agony's unleavening yeast

	       And follow an Egyptian priest

	       Who boasts him master of	the fire

	       The gods	upon a sandal pyre,

	       And bring up devils in the smoke.

	       Wrapped in his misery like a cloak,

	       Despairing now to charm the Unknown.

	       Sir Palamede hath overthrown

	       The jesters.  Now the country men,

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen

	       A-riding	like an	harvest	moon

	       With plumd helm,	and wingd shoon,

					     XX

	       SIR PALAMEDE hat	reasoned out
	       Beyond the shadow of a doubt

	       For were	it Beasts, he must suppose
	       An earlier Beast	to father those.

	       Into the	forest he discards,
	       And only	turns his dark regards

	       Sir Palamede doth now attain
	       Unto a wide and grassy plain,

	       Thereat he putteth spur to horse
	       And runneth him a random	course,

	       But praise to good Sir Palamede!
	       'Hath gotten him	a fairy	steed

	       So that in little drawing near
	       The quarry, lifteth up his spear

	       With that the Beast hopes no escape,
	       Dissolveth all his lordly shape,

	       Sir Palamede in fury runs
	       Unto the	nearer beast, that shuns

	       Until the baffled warrior sees
	       A myriad	myriad swarms of these

	       The good	knight reins his charger in.
	       "Now, by	the faith of Paladin!

	       Rides off the Camelot to	plight
	       The faith of many a noble knight,

					     XXI

	       Now doth	Sir Palamede advance
	       The lord	of many	a sword	and lance.

	       Their shields and arms a-glittering glance

	       And laugh upon the mossy	mead.
	       Now winds the horn of Palamede,

	       He spies	the Questing Beast a-feed.

	       With loyal craft	and honest guile
	       They spread their ranks for many	a mile.

	       he practiseth his ancient wile,

	       And many	a myriad beasts	invade
	       The stillness of	that armd glade.

	       His lance, and given the	accolade,

	       And run upon a beast: but they Slip from	the fatal point	away

	       That gallant concourse all the day,  {58}

	       Leading them ever to a vale
	       With hugeous cry	and monster wail.

	       And in the park's resounding pale

	       Only the	clamour	of the chase
	       is heard: oh! to	the centre race

	       The Questing Beast his former face

	       Of unity	resumes: the course
	       Of warriors shocks with man and horse.

	       They shatter with unbridled force

	       One on another: down they go
	       Swift in	stupendous overthrow.

	       Splinter	beneath	the knightly blow.

	       they storm, they	charge,	they hack and hew,
	       They rush and wheel the press athrough.

	       One, two, and all.  Nor silence knew

	       His empire till Sir Palamede
	       (The last) upon his fairy steed

	       Fell silence on the bloody mead,	 {59}

	       Until the questing rose again.
	       For there, on that ensanguine plain

	       The single Beast	they had not slain.

	       There, with his friends and followers dead,
	       His brother smitten through the head,

	       Weepeth upon the	deed of	dread,

	       Alone among his murdered	men,
	       The champion fool, as fools were	then,

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen.  {60}

					    XXII

	       SIR PALAMEDE his	wits doth rally,

	       Within an admirable valley,

	       Whose walls their thirst	on heaven slake,

	       Their countless spears of silver	shake.

	       Thus reasons he:	"In each and all

	       Is wondrous geometrical.

	       In spire	and whorl twists out and back

	       And lo! the grain of wit	I lack ---

	       This Beast is Master of Design.

	       In this mirific mind of mine,

	       My heart	may happen on a	hint."

	       Eagerly chases grain or glint,  {61}

	       The knight at last wins to behold

	       The fair	lake's mirror crystal-cold

	       Wherein he gazes, keen to view

	       The Beast to his	last avenue.

	       then ---	O thou gosling scant of	grace!

	       Wakes to	the glass of his fool's	face!

	       "Ah, 'sdeath!" (quod he), "by thought and deed

	       The lance is made a broken reed,

	       The brain is but	a barren tree ---

	       Is but mine own geometry!"

	       With that his wrath brake out like wine.

	       The whole delusion asinine.

	       All the false water-nymphs that flattered

	       O fool of God! as if it mattered!

	       So, nothing better, rather worse,

					    XXIII

	       NOW still he holdeth argument:

	       hence, now beseemeth me frequent

	       So, riding fast among the flowers

	       That like a gladiator towers

	       The people cluster round, acclaim:

	       Here dwells the Beast in	orient flame,

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen

	       The end;	and all	the urgent men

	       Sir Palamede his	vizor drops;

	       He drives the rowels home --- he	stops!

	       He turns	--- the	friendly folk are gone,

	       Beyond the infinite horizon

	       His brain befooled, his pocket picked ---

	       Far from	that doleful derelict

					    XXIV

	       "ONE thing at least" (quoth Palamede),

	       This Questing Beast that	mocks my need

	       So delveth he a darksome	hole

	       Closing the harbour of his soul

	       And now the questing of the Beast

	       Leaps his while heart in	fiery feast

	       But echoing from	the central roar

	       And shapes more mystic than before

	       Ah! mocks him many a myriad vision,

	       Turning devotion	to derision,

	       They swarm, they	grow, they multiply;

	       Paced by	that maddening minstrelsy,

	       The last	bar breaks; the	steel will snaps;

	       A thousand threatening thunder-claps

	       His muscles roar	with senseless rage;

	       Reels to	the light that sorry sage,

					     XXV

	       A SAVAGE	sea without a sail,

	       Rare snow that floats --- a vestal veil

	       Here in a plunging galleon

	       Drifts desperately on --- and on	---

	       The deep-scarred	brain of him is	healed

	       The assoiling grace that	God revealed

	       Ah! still he trusts the recreant	brain,

	       Still he	raves on in reason-strain

	       "All the	delusions" (argueth

	       From that curst Me whose	name is	Death,

	       The Me with Thou; then swift the	quest

	       With that he crossed him, brow and breast,

	       An end?	Alas! on silver	sand

	       What snorts there, swimming from	the land?

	       "O Beast!" quoth	purple Palamede,

	       I could not live	before,	indeed;

	       Who chose me, of	the Table Round

	       Here, waterlogged and muscle-bound,

					    XXVI

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       Paddled by stalwart South Sea men.

	       They cleave the oily breasts of blue,

	       Of the tall sun;	they battle through

	       Those weary days; the wind is brisk;

	       Now, even as a white basilisk

	       That slayeth all	men with his eye,

	       The cone	of speechless sanctity.

	       Up, up its slopes the pilgrims swing,

	       Unto the	dread volcano-king.

	       "Now, then, by Goddes reed!" quod he,

	       In this far-famed stability! {69}

	       For all these Paynim knights may	rest

	       But from	the earth's full-flowered breast

	       Brake the blind roar of earthquake through,

	       Engulphing all that heathen crew,

	       That cried and cursed on	one another.

	       For twinned with	Earthquake laughs her brother

	       The Questing Beast.  As Goddes reed

	       Of the good knight begins to bleed.

	       Of all the ruinous shafts that dart

	       The most	intolerable smart.

	       "By Goddes wounds!" the good knight cried,

	       Where nothing --- nothing --- may abide?

	       Westward!"  They	fly, but rolling after

	       And inextinguishable laughter!  {70}

					    XXVII

	       SIR PALAMEDE goes aching	on

	       Aye to the western horizon,

	       Still meditating, sharp and strict,

	       Its towers and temples derelict,

	       The ready ruin of its mirth,

	       The joy of life,	its growing girth ---

	       And nothing as the end of all.

	       Its rapids past him, so the wall

	       Of things brake down; his eyes behold

	       Upon its	breast of burnished gold.

	       "Ah! by Christ's	blood!"	(his soul avouched),

	       Death lurks, a leopard curled and crouched,  {71}

	       In all the seasons and the tides.

	       (The good knight	laughed	to split his sides!)

	       "What?  Is the soul of things deranged?

	       Its changes, and	still changed, and changed,

	       The liker to itself it grew.

	       To the old land of Hormakhu,

	       That I may sit and curse	awhile

	       My quest	about --- on, on to Nile!

	       Tread tenderly, my merry	men!

	       As Palamede the Saracen."  {72}

					   XXVIII

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       Hath curses, writ by holy men

	       He standeth at an altar-stone;

	       His chant rolls in a magick moan;

	       His wand	makes curves and spires	in air;

	       His eyes	fix in a glass-cold stare:

	       "Lo! by thy Gods, O God,	I vow

	       Of curst	Osiris even now

	       I cast thee down, oh crowned and	throned!

	       Until mine anger	be atoned

	       With firm red lips and square black beard,
	       Osiris in his strength appeared.

	       He made the sign	that saveth men
	       On Palamede the Saracen.

	       'Hath hushed his	conjuration grim:
	       The curse comes back to sleep with him.

	       'Hath fallen himself to that profane
	       Whence none might ever rise again.

	       Dread torture racks him;	all his	bones
	       Get voice to utter forth	his groans.

	       The very	poison of his blood
	       Joins in	that cry's soul-shaking	flood.

	       For many	a chiliad counted well
	       His soul	stayed in its proper Hell.

	       Then, when Sir Palamedes	came

	       Cold was	the incense, dead the flame;

	       What of the Beast?  What	of the quest?

	       Even now	its laughter is	suppressed,

	       O thou most desperate dupe that Hell's

	       Meddle no more with magick spells,

					    XXIX

	       HA! but the good	knight,	striding forth

	       Pursues the quest with bitter wrath,

	       And lo! the soul	that heareth them

	       His fame	runs through the land of Khem:

	       There he	works many a miracle:

	       Lepers grow clean; sick folk grow well;

	       He casts	out devils with	a word;

	       No such a wonder	hath been heard

	       "Now, by	the glad blood of our Lord!"

	       I am the	chosen harpsichord

	       The saint of Mary" --- there he stayed,

	       So fierce a questing barked and brayed,

	       His vow forgot, his task	undone,

	       (He moaned a mighty malison!)

	       "Now, by	God's wounds!" quoth he, "my strength

	       Let me fling off	my curse at length

	       Thou blessd Jesus, foully nailed

	       Look on my soul's poor fort assailed

	       Is there	no medicine but	death

	       That I may know the Beauteous Breath

	       Keep Thou yet firm this trembling leaf

	       Yea! for	that sinner-soul the chief,

					     XXX

	       STARRED is the blackness	of the sky;

	       Where good Sir Palamede doth lie,

	       All day he rode;	all night he lay

	       Seeking in many a secret	way

	       Beneath him, hark! the marvel sounds!

	       As if a thirty couple hounds

	       Beneath him?  Heareth he	aright?

	       Steep dips a stairway from the light

	       Still never a tremor shakes his soul

	       He plungers to that gruesome goal

	       The broad stair winds; he follows it;

	       Black, black the	blackness of the pit,

	       His sword sweeps	out; his keen glance peers

	       Naught, naught in all that void appears;

	       Ye now the good knight is aware

	       Waiting beneath that awful stair,

	       Yea! though he sees not anything,

	       That, lackeyed by the devil-king,

	       So though his heart beats close with fear,

	       Goes on to meet it, spear to spear,

	       Nay! but	the end	is come.  Black	earth

	       Up from her gulphs --- untimely birth!

	       White as	a corpse, the hero hails

	       His body.  All death's doubt assails

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

	       I will pursue this mystery.

	       Ay! with	thy wasted limbs pursue

	       Who know	but thou mayst win athrough,

					    XXXI

	       FROM God's sweet	air Sir	Palamede

	       A city where but	rats may breed

	       In sewer-stench and fetid fog.

	       Breathless with foolish haste they jog

	       And jostle, all for naught!  They scrawl

	       Ere day.	 They call and bawl and	squall

	       Hoarse cries; they moan,	they groan.  A stone

	       A cabbage-headed	god they own,

	       With wandering eye and jabbering	tongue.

	       And charnel-house of death and dung,

	       Shrieks:	"How the air is	sweet and pure!

	       And I will teach	thee!  Lo! the lure  {81}

	       Of light!  How lucent is	the fog!

	       How sweetly fragrant is the bog!

	       "God's wounds!"	(Sir Palamedes said),

	       Must I, the clean knight	born and bred,

	       Sup with	this filthy toad-abortion?"

	       Lest by disdain his mention torsion

	       Slip back, or miss the serene smile

	       The unknown may lurk within the vile.

	       So he who sought	the Beauteous Breath,

	       Went equal into life and	death.

	       But oh! the foulness of his face!

	       He turned his back upon the place,

	       Sought the blue sky and the green earth,

	       That filth that stank about his girth,  {82}

	       The sores and scabs, the	warts and wens,

	       In those	insufferable dens,

	       The foul	diseases he had	fathered.

	       "First (Christ!)	let me be clean	again!"	 {83}

					    XXXII

	       "HA!" cries the knight, "may patient toil
	       Of brain	dissolve this cruel coil!

	       Clothe them with	feathers, subtly foil

	       Its vigilance, come close, then dart
	       Its death upon it.  Brave my heart!

	       Himself,	on hands and knees doth	start

	       His hunt, goes questing up and down.
	       So in the fields	the peasant clown

	       But when	he came	to any town

	       They caged him for a lunatic.
	       Quod he:	"Would God I had the trick!

	       I will the same.	 The bars are thick,

	       But I am	strong."  He wrenched in vain;
	       Then ---	what is	this?  What wild, sharp	strain

	       Hark! 'tis the Questing Beast again!   {84}

	       Then as he rushes forth the note
	       Roars from that Beast's malignant throat

	       The wits	of Palamedes float

	       In ecstasy of shame and rage.
	       "O Thou!" exclaims the baffled sage;

	       Though Doomisday	devour the Age.

	       Weeping,	and beating on his breast,
	       Gnashing	his teeth, he still confessed

	       He would	not yet	give up	the quest.

	       "Nay! while I am," quoth	he, "though Hell
	       Engulph me, though God mock me well,

	       Though it be unattainable.

	       Nay, more!  Because I may not win,
	       Is't worth man's	work to	enter in!

	       Hath caught my spirit in	a gin.

	       Come! since I may not imitate
	       The Beast, at least I work and wait.

	       Which is	the master --- I or Fate!"  {85}

					   XXXIII

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

		   That	the keen whisper of the	wind
	       May bring him that which	never men

		   So long to seek, so far to find!

	       So weary	was the	knight,	his limbs

		   No longer gripped the charger rude.
	       Listless, he aches; his purpose swims

		   Of laxity and lassitude.

	       The soul	subsides; its serious motion

		   And all his lust to win the quest
	       Is but a	passive-mild devotion.

		   --- And is not death	the Lord of Rest?)

	       There as	he basks upon the cliff

		   Are moist with love;	his lips are fain  {86}
	       To breathe fond prayers;	and (marry!) if

		   He need not linger to attain.

	       Nay! while the Beast squats there, above

		   Wonderful deeds and fruitless flowers,
	       He grows	so maudlin in his love

		   Mock	at him in their	merry hours.

	       "God's death!" raged Palamede, not wroth

		   Am I	a jape for scullions?"
	       His curse came in a flaky froth.

		   Breaking the	knave's	unreverent sconce!

	       "Thou mock the Questing Beast I chase,

		   Then	sudden from the	slave there brake
	       A cachinnation scant of grace,

		   Were	in his belly!  Knight, awake!

	       Ah! well	he woke!  His love an scorn

		   "Lead me away" (quoth he), "my men!
	       Woe, woe	is me was ever born

		   As Palamede the Saracen!"  {87}

					    XXXIV

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       Upon an island in the fen

	       Of that lone land where Druids dwell.

	       And bade	him mount.  From dale to dell

	       They sank and soared.  Last to the light

	       Piercing	the borders of the night,

	       Passing the irremeable blue.

	       At last they came.  And there he	knew

	       All the blind reasonable	bars

	       And all the stains and all the scars

	       Left him; sop like a child he thrilled

	       With perfect sense and sight fulfilled,	{88}

	       Touched the extreme, the	giant goal!

	       All power in his	sublime	control,

	       All felt, all thought, all comprehended ---

	       "Is not --- at last! ---	achieved and ended?

	       Why taste I not the Bounteous Breath,

	       Now, kind king-eagle (by	God's death!),

	       Restore me to mine ancient place!

	       Then swooped he from the	Byss of	Space,

	       And set the knight amid the fen.

	       Who have	won nine should	fail at	ten!

I set my all upon the die:
There is no further trick to try.

	       Call thrice accursd above men
	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen!"  {89}

					    XXXV

	       "YEA!" quoth the	knight,	"I rede	the spell.
	       This Beast is the Unknowable.
	       I seek in Heaven, I seek	in Hell;

	       Ever he mocks me.  Yet, methinks,
	       I have the riddle of the	Sphinx.
	       For were	I keener than the lynx

	       I should	not see	within my mind
	       One thought that	is not in its kind
	       In sooth	That Beast that	lurks behind:

	       And in my quest his questing seems
	       The authentic echo of my	dreams,
	       The proper thesis of my themes!

	       I know him?  Still he answers: No!
	       I know him not?	Maybe --- and lo!
	       He is the one sole thing	I know!

	       Nay! who	knows not is different
	       From him	that knows.  Then be content;
	       Thou canst not alter the	event!	{90}

	       Ah! what	conclusion subtly draws
	       From out	this chaos of mad laws?
	       An I, the effect, as I, the cause?

	       Nay, the	brain reels beneath its	swell
	       Of pompous thoughts.  Enough to tell
	       That He is known	Unknowable!"

	       Thus did	that knightly Saracen
	       In Cantabrig's miasmal fen
	       Lecture to many learned men.

	       So clamorous was	their applause ---
	       "His mind" (said	they) "is free of flaws:
	       The Veil	of God is thin as gauze!" ---

	       That almost they	had dulled or drowned
	       The laughter (in	its belly bound)
	       Of that dread Beast he had not found.

	       Nathless	--- although he	would away ---
	       They forced the lack-luck knight	to stay
	       And lecture many	a weary	day.

	       Verily, almost he had caught
	       The infection of	their costive thought,
	       And brought his loyal quest to naught.

	       It was by night that Palamede
	       Ran from	that mildewed, mouldy breed,
	       Moth-eathen dullards run	to seed!  {91}

	       How weak	Sir Palamedes grows!
	       We hear no more of bouts	and blows!
	       His weapons are his ten good toes!

	       He that was Arthur's peer, good knight
	       Proven in many a	foughten fight,
	       Flees like a felon in the night!

	       Ay! this	thy quest is past the ken
	       Of thee and of all mortal men,
	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen!  {92}

					    XXXVI

	       OFT, as Sir Palamedes went

	       Of some vast shadow subtly bent

	       It had no shape,	no voice had it

	       Yet all the horror of the pit

	       Moreover, though	he sought to scan

	       No shape	of God or fiend	or man,

	       Gave him	to know	it.  Now it chanced

	       Through a great wood whose leafage danced

	       From heaven.  He	halted in a glade,

	       Put off his armour, softly laid

	       He woke.	Before him stands and grins

	       "Hast seen the Beast?  The quest	that wins

	       Sir Knight," he answers,	"hast thou seen

	       That it is ever or hath been,

	       Sir Palamede was	well awake.

	       Yet find	no answer fit to make

	       The fool's cap shames the helm.	But thou!

	       My way, sets shame upon my brow,

	       Then, since the thinker must be dumb,

	       The wisest monk in Christendom

	       With that, as a snake strikes, his sword

	       And fell, one swift, assured award,

	       Straight	he dissolved, a	voiceless shade.

	       "What odds?  Keep bright	and sharp thy blade,

					   XXXVII

	       SIR PALAMEDE is sick to death!

	       God grant to him	the Beauteous breath!

	       There is	a white	cave by	the sea

	       Just ere	the night falls, spieth	he

	       All day is dark.	 There,	there he mourns

	       A million whips,	a million scorns

	       For now!	what hath he left?  He feeds

	       There is	no need	a mortal needs

	       How his head swims!  At night what stirs

	       And rare	sea-birds whose	winging	whirrs

	       God save	thee, woeful Palamede!

	       Within thy ear.	By Goddes reed,

	       Within thy proper bowels	it sounds

	       As if a thirty couple hounds

	       Now, then, he grasps the	desperate truth

	       Hath wasted strength, hath wasted youth --0-

	       He rises	from the cave of death,

	       To know at last the Bounteous Breath,

	       Ah!  Palamede, thou has mistook!

	       Not to be written in my book

	       so weak and ill was he, I doubt

	       Of laughter that	came rolling out

	       Yet, those white	lips were snapped, like	steel

	       That body broken	on the wheel

	       "Not there, not here, my	quest!"	he cried.

	       Matter?	I am, and I abide,

					   XXXVIII

	       SIR PALAMEDE of great renown

	       His sword loose and his vizor down,

	       Now, then, God save thee, Palamede!

	       Those silver arms, that sable steed,

	       The strange knight spurs	to him.	 disdain

	       His vizor.  "Come, an end!  In vain,

	       Sir Palamede was	white with fear.

	       His own that voice so icy clear

	       "False knight! false knight!" the stranger cried.

	       I am the	good knight fain to ride

	       Thief of	my arms, my crest, my quest,

	       See, with this whip I lash thee back,

	       So false	a hound."  "Good knight, in sooth,"

	       Presume to asset	the idlest truth;

	       I grant thou art	Sir Palamede.

	       If thou or I be he.  Take heed!"

	       Drove his spurs home, and rode upon

	       The barred strength of his morion,

	       "Now, by	God's death!" quoth Palamede,

	       So much of thee as God might feed

	       The sweet Christ's mercy	shall avail,

	       Since every bone	of thee	may rail

	       Thou hast lied.	I am the chosen	knight

	       I am the	loyal son of light,

	       Thou wast the subtlest fiend that yet

	       I dare not, but my sword	is wet

	       fouled!	Dost thou think	to resurrect?

	       From all	such fiends do thou protect

					    XXXIX

	       GREEN and Grecian is the	valley,

		   Dancing in a	ring
	       Merrily and musically.

		   The mere thrill of spring!

	       "Come" (they cry), "Sir Knight, put by

	       Here's a	posy, here's a garland,	there's	a chain	of daisies!

	       Praise the God that crazes men, the God that raises

	       Sir Palamedes was too wise

	       He smiles into their sparkling eyes

	       "For who" (quoth	he) "may say that this
	       Is not the mystery I miss?"

	       Soon he is gathered in the dance,

	       A boy's laugh and a maiden's glance

	       Stay! is	thee naught some wanton	wight
	       May do to excite	the glamoured knight?

	       Yea! the	song takes a sea-wild swell;

	       Strange lights abound and terrible;

	       The lights are gone; the	night is come;

	       Some climax --- oh, how tense and dumb

	       Hush! the heart's beat!	Across the moor
	       Some dreadful god rides fast, be	sure!

	       the listening Palamede bites through

	       Are they	the Quest?  How	still and blue

	       Then on a sudden	in the midst of	them

	       Upon his	brow the twelve-star diadem

	       Thrill upon thrill courseth through Palamede.

	       All youth comes back, all strength, all you indeed

	       Yet was his heart immeasurably sad,
	       For that	no questing in his ear he had.

	       Nay! he saw all.	 He saw	the Curse

	       He saw the unborn Universe,

	       He saw, and was,	all things at once

	       The moons, the meteors, the suns,

	       Inextricably one, inevitably one,

	       Beyond all the wonder that his soul had won

	       "Praise God!" quoth Palamede, "by this
	       I attain	the uttermost of bliss.	...

	       God's wounds!  but that I never sought.

	       And all this miracle is naught.

	       I keep my youth regained	to foil
	       Old Time	that took me in	his toil.
	       I keep my strength regained to chase

	       Dear Christ!  I pray Thee of Thy	grace
	       Take pity on the	forlorn	case

					     XL

	       SIR PALAMEDE the	Saracen

	       To pass beyond that great Amen.

	       Far hath	he wandered; still to fret

	       The rhododendron	forest-net,

	       His body	bloody with its	leeches.

	       Of a great mountain, far	that reaches

	       Toward the King-snows; the rains	molest

	       In sheets, in torrents, fiend-possessed,

	       Up from the steaming plains of Ind.

	       Yet he feels naught; his	mind is	pinned

	       To that one point where all the thrones

	       Towering	above all crests and cones  {105}

	       That crouch like	jackals.  Stress and shock

	       He moves	with silent speed.   They flock,

	       The Gods, to watch him.	Now abate

	       And turns him to	the mighty gate,

	       The glacier.  Oh, the flowers that scale

	       The quarts ravines!  The	clouds that veil

	       The awful slopes!  Dear God! look down

	       Relentless as Thine own renown,

	       Careless	of praise or orison,

	       (this knight's presumptuous head	upon)

	       The devastating avalancehe?

	       His wound is more than Death can	staunch.

	       He can avoid, though by one tittle,

	       Breasting the crags, may	laugh and whittle

	       Away the	demon-club whose might

	       And eager, with a boy's delight,	{106}

	       Treads the impending glacier.

	       That leads to the last neck.  By	Her

	       That bore the lord, by what device

	       Ardent and steady, as if	the price

	       Of death	were less than life approves,

	       Or as on	angels'	wings --- or love's!

	       So, all the journey he discounted,

	       Upon the	summit;	dreams uncounted,

	       Worlds of sublime beatitude!

	       And dropped to vile desuetude.

	       What lay	beyond?	 What star unsmutched

	       And all the Naught their	ardour clutched,

	       Like all	the rest, begins to crumble.

	       All that	bards sing of or priests mumble;

	       No man, no God, hath known what he did.

	       Exactly the one thing he	needed.	 {107}

	       "Faugh!"	cried the knight.  "Thought, word, and act

	       Impossible.  I break the	pact.

	       Back to the gilded halls, confessed

	       This task hath earned a foison --- rest.

	       In Caerlon and Camelot

	       To buss the wenches, pass the pot,
	       Is now the enviable lot

					     XLI

	       SIR ARTHUR sits again at	feast

	       Of Camelot.  From West to East

	       The Table Round hath burst the thrall

	       Sits on the gay knights,	one and	all;

	       Till Arthur: "Of	your chivalry,

	       Of the one knight we lack" (quoth he);

	       "For surely in some sore	distress

	       Rose as one man in glad liesse

	       To honour that great health.  "god's way

	       "Yet, may god send him back this	day,

	       His quest achieve, to Camelot!"

	       When ---	the wind rose, a blast as hot {109}

	       As the simoom, and forth	did roll

	       Then came a bugle-blast.	 The soul

	       Of each knight stirred.	With vigour rude,

	       That hid	the door.  All ashen-hued

	       The knights laid	hand to	sword.	But he

	       Was found --- God knoweth --- bitterly

	       Weeping.	 Cried Arthur: "Strange	the hap!

	       What gift had Fortune in	her lap

	       Like thee?  Em,brace me!"  "Rather end

	       (Quod he).  "I am come unto the end.

	       All mine	intent and my desire,

	       Burn them with me in fatal fire!

	       Fir I have failed.  All ways, each one

	       Or shirked, God knows.  I have not won:

	       That and	no more	I know.	 I failed."

	       Merlin uprose, his face unveiled;  {110}

	       Thrice cried he piteously then

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen,

	       As knowing nothing might	bestead,

	       A hugeous cry, a	questing dread,

	       As if (God's death!) there coursed alone

	       That marvellous music monotone

	       As if a thirty couple hounds

	       And by His pitiful five wounds! ---

	       Even as a lover to his tryst,

	       One flame of gold and amethyst,

	       Bodily seen then	of them	all.

	       Nestling	to him,	as sweet and small

	       As a young babe clings at its need

	       As Christ clung to the gibbet-reed!

	       Then every knight turned	to his brother,

	       And, as they looked on one another,  {111}

	       Surely there stole a subtle madness

	       For all the roots of sin	and sadness

	       Were plucked.  As a flower perisheth,

	       All they	did know the Beauteous Breath

	       And taste the Goodly Gift of Grace.

	       Of the great Beast, that	was the	bass

	       To all the harps	of Heaven a-playing,

	       But was upon his	knees in praying

	       And glorifying God).  The Son

	       "Arise! brave soldier, thou hast	won

	       The quest not given to mortal men.

	       Christian, and no more Saracen!

	       On wake or sleeping, wise, inept,

	       On which	thy folly stumbled, leapt,

	       All led to the one goal.	 Now praise

	       To win the quest!"  The good knight lays	 {112}

	       His hand	upon the Beast.	 Then blew

	       All Heaven resounded that it knew

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen

	       Through all the mighty realms of	men

	       And spirits breathed the	Beauteous Breath:

	       --- Now 'tis the	chronicler that	saith:

	       Our Saviour grant in little space

	       Thus, though so evil is my case ---

	       Let them	that read my rime attest

	       That writes in pure blood of my breast;

	       For that	I figure unto men

	       Sir Palamede the	Saracen!  {113}

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