The Soul of Osiris

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 ! ”