the Equinox - The Hermetic Library

XXXVIII
SIR PALAMEDE of great renown
rode through the land upon the quest,
His sword loose and his vizor down,
His buckler braced, his lance in rest.
Now, then, God save thee, Palamede!
Who courseth yonder on the field?
Those silver arms, that sable steed,
The sun and rose upon his shield?
The strange knight spurs to him. Disdain
Curls that proud lip as he uplifts
His vizor. “Come, an end! In vain,
Sir Fox, thy thousand turns and shifts!”
Sir Palamede was white with fear.
Lord Christ! those features were his own;
His own that voice so icy clear
That cuts him, cuts him to the bone.
“False knight! false knight!” the stranger cried.
“Thou bastard dog, Sir Palamede?
I am the good knight fain to ride
Upon the Questing Beast at need.
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