48 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
There is a shallop—how the breakers gallop, 
 Grinding to dust the unresisting shore, 
A moon-mad thought to wander in the shallop ! 
 Act—think no more ! 
 
Pale as a ghost I leave the sounding coast, 
 The waters white with moonrise.  I embark, 
Float on to the horizon as a ghost, 
 Confront the dark. 
 
The cadent curve of Dian seems to swerve, 
 Eluding helmcraft :  let me drift away 
Where sea and sky unite their clamorous curve 
 In praise of Day. 
 
Is it an edge ?  Some spray-bechiselled ledge ? 
 Some sentry platform to an under sky ? 
Let me drift onward to the azure edge— 
 I can but die ! 
 
The moon hath seen !  An arrow cold and keen 
 Brings some cold being from the water chill, 
Rises between me and the world—unseen, 
 Most terrible. 
 
Dawns that unheard-of terror !  Never a word of 
 The spells that chain ill spirits I remember. 
And oh !  my soul !  What hands of ice unheard-of 
 Disturb, dismember !