The Soul of Osiris

THE GATE OF THE SANCTUARY. 75 I, his best sword, must fall, in earnest fight. The old despair was coward—he was right. Now, king, I pay your debt. A purple stain Hides his laced throat—I sober at the sight. “ King, you are touched ! ” “ Fight on, Earl Lecherer ! ” I cursed him to his face—the added spur Sticks venom in my lunge—a sudden thrust ! No cry, no gasp ; but he is in the dust, Stark dead. The queen—I hate the name of her ! So grew the mustard-seed, one moment’s lust. I too was wounded : shameful runs the song. She nursed me through that melancholy long Month of despair : she won my life from death. Ah God ! she won that most reluctant breath Out of corruption : love ! ah ! love is strong ! What waters quench it ? King Shalomeh saith. I am the king : you know it, friend ! We wed. That is the tale of how my wooing sped. And oh ! the quest : half won—incredible ? I am so brave, and pure—folk love me well. But oh ! my life, my being ! That is dead, And my whole soul—a whirlwind out of hell !