96 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
Mine eyes peer deeper in the quivering gloom— 
 What horrors crowd upon the aching sight ! 
Behold !  the phantom !  Icy as the tomb, 
His head of writhing scorpions in the womb 
 Of deadlier terrors :  how a charnel-light 
Gleams on his beetle frame !  What poison drips 
Of slime and blood from his disastrous lips ! 
 
What oceans of decaying water steam 
 For his vast essence !  And a voice rolls forth 
With miserable fury from that stream 
Of horror :  “ Thou hast called me by the beam 
 Of glory, by the devastating wrath 
Of thine accurséd godhead :  tell me then 
My Name !  Thou hardiest of the Sons of Men ! ” 
 
“ Thy name is—stay !  thou liest !  I discern 
 In Thee no terror that my spells evoke. 
Begone, thou wandering corpse of night !  return 
Into thy shadowy world !  My symbols burn 
 Against thee, shade of terror !  Go ! ”  It spoke : 
“ Yea !  I am human.  Know my actual truth : 
I am that ghost, the father of thy youth ! ” 
 
“ Poor wandering phantom ! ”—the exultant yell 
 And wolfish howling of all damnéd souls 
Peals from the ravening jaws and gulfs of hell : 
Leaps that foul horror through the terrible 
 Extinguished circle of the burning bowls. 
Then I remember, fling the gleaming rod 
Against him :  “ Liar, back !  For I am God ! ”