XXVIII
Sir PaLaMEDE the Saracen
Hath clad him in a sable robe;
Hath curses, writ by holy men
From all the gardens of the globe.
He standeth at an altar-stone ;
The blood drips from the slain babe’s throat;
His chant rolls in a magick moan;
His head bows to the crownéd goat.
His wand makes curves and spires in air;
The smoke of incense curls and quivers;
His eyes fix in a glass-cold stare:
The land of Egypt rocks and shivers!
“Lo! by thy Gods, O God, I vow
To burn the authentic bones and blood
Of curst Osiris even now
To the dark Nile’s upsurging flood!
I cast thee down, oh crowned and throned!
To black Amennti’s void profane.
Until mine anger be atoned
Thou shalt not ever rise again.”
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