Whose stare could stiffen,And the hot breath whiskFrom the overboldBraving a gazeSo freezing cold,Who sings their praiseThese latter days?That venemous headOn a woman fair,—Medusa's deadOf the hissing hair.No beasts are madeMeet for the whirOf that sunken bladeExcalibur.No smithies forgeA shining swordFit for the gorgeOf a beast abhorred.Pale TheseusWould have no need,Were he with us,Of sword or thread;For long has been setThe baleful statOf Pasiphaë's pet,The Minotaur.
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