The Soul of Osiris

THE GATE OF THE SANCTUARY. 61 The king was silent. None of us would stir. I sat, struck dumb, a living sepulchre. For—hear me ! in my heart this thing became My sacrament, my pentecostal flame. And with it grew a fear—a fear of Her. What Her ? Shame had not found itself a name. Simply I knew it in myself. I brood Ten years—so seemed it—O ! the bitter food In my mouth nauseate ! In the silent hall One might have heard God’s sparrow in its fall. But I was lost in mine own solitude— I should not hear Mikhael’s trumpet-call. Yet there did grow a clamour shrill and loud : One cursed, one crossed himself, another vowed His soul against the quest ; the tumult ran Indecorous in that presence, man to man. Stilled suddenly, beholding how I bowed My soul in thought : another cry began. “ Gereth the dauntless ! Gereth of the Sea ! Gereth the loyal ! Child of royalty ! Witch-mothered Gereth ! Sword above the strong, Heart pure, head many-wiled ! ” The knightly throng Clamour my name, and flattering words, to me— If they may ’scape the quest—I do them wrong ; They are my friends—Yet something terrible Rings in the manly music that they swell.