human
O terrible! I am afraid To breathe among these intermittent lives, That fluctuate in mystic solitude, And change and fade. Lo! where the goddess sits Dreaming on her dim throne; a crescent moon She wears upon her forehead. Ah! her frown Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast? A baby god with finger on his lips, Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway? Thy son. Hush, hush; he knoweth all the lore And sorcery of old Egypt; but his mouth He shuts; the secret shall be lost with him, He will not tell.
gpt
Child, what art doing here? the woman said;
human
What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?