74
THE HIGH HISTORY OF GOOD
With firm red lips and square black beard,
Osiris in his strength appeared.
He made the sign that saveth men
On Palamede the Saracen.
’Hath hushed his conjuration grim:
The curse comes back to sleep with him.
Hath fallen himself to that profane
Whence none might ever rise again.
Dread torture racks him; all his bones
Get voice to utter forth his groans.
The very poison of his blood
Joins in that cry’s soul-shaking flood.
For many a chiliad counted well
His soul stayed in its proper Hell.
Then, when Sir Palamedes came
Back to himself, the shrine was dark.
Cold was the incense, dead the flame;
The slain babe lay there black and stark.
What of the Beast? What of the quest?
More blind the quest, the Beast more dim.
Even now its laughter is suppressed,
While his own demons mock at him!