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a poem and pilgrimage in the Holy Land

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When all were served with wine and rhyme
“Ho, comrade,” cried armed Og sublime,
“Your singing makes the filling scant;
The flask to me, let me decant.”
With that, the host he played—brimmed up
And off-hand pushed the frequent cup;
Flung out his thigh, and quaffed apace,
Barbaric in his hardy grace;
The while his haughty port did say,
Who 's here uncivilized, I pray?
I know good customs: stint I ye?
Indeed (thought Rolfe), a man of mark,
And makes a rare symposiarch;
I like him; I'll e'en feel his grip.
With that, in vinous fellowship
Frank he put out his hand. In mood
Of questionable brotherhood
The slayer stared—anon construed
The overture aright, and yet
Not unreservedly he met
The palm. Came it in sort too close?
Was it embraces were for foes?