20 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
The mountains echo back to me 
 The vengeful murmur of the sky ; 
All heaven and earth on me attend 
To prophesy the tyrant’s end. 
 
The gates are closed because of night, 
 Whose heavy breath infects the air ; 
The dog-star gleams, a devilish light : 
 I thought I saw behind me glare 
The eyes of fiends ;  I thought I heard 
An evil laugh, a mocking word. 
 
The gates swing open at The Name, 
 Without a warder roused from sleep ; 
I pass, with face of burning flame, 
 That is not quenched, although I weep. 
(For even my tears are tears of fire, 
For loathing, madness, and desire.) 
 
Ah God !  the traps for fervent feet ! 
 The morrow beaconed, and I came 
By where the golden groves of wheat 
 In summer glories fiercely flame ; 
To those white courts, by princes trod, 
Where Ahab sat, and mocked at God. 
 
Where Ahab sat, but lo !  I saw 
 No king, no tyrant to be curst ; 
But she, who filled me with blind awe, 
 She, for whose blood my thin veins thirst ;