The Soul of Osiris

68 THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. Friend, hast thou heard the wailing of the damned ? Friend, hast thou listened when a murderer shammed Pale smiles amid his fellows as they spoke Low of his crime : his fear is like to choke His palsied throat. How, if Hell’s gate were slammed This very hour upon thy womanfolk ? Conceive, I charge thee ! Brace thy spirit up To drink at that imagination’s cup ! Then, shriek, and pass ! For thou shalt understand A little of the pressure of the hand That crushed me now. Yes, yes ! let fancy sup That grislier banquet than old Atreus planned ! Mind cannot fathom, nor the brain conceive, Nor soul assimilate, nor heart believe The horror of that Thing without a Name. Full on me, boasting, like Death’s hand it came, And struck me headlong. Linger, while I weave The web of mine old agony and shame. A little shadow of that hour of mine Touches thy heart ? Fill up the foaming wine, And listen for a little ! How profound Strikes memory keen-fanged ; memory, the hound That tracks me yet—a shiver takes my spine At one half-hint, the shadow of that sound. Where am I ? Seven days my spirit fell, Down, down the whirlpools and the gulfs of hell :