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 :