Sir Palamedes

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.” 73