ak of things which have not been told since the
beginning of this world, let me pass on and reverently set down the
history of that holy morn.

For seven days the great festival had been celebrated, the suffering of
the Lord Osiris had been commemorated, the grief of the Mother Isis had
been sung and glory had been done to the memory of the coming of the
Divine Child Horus, the Son, the Avenger, the God-begot. All these
things had been carried out according to the ancient rites. The boats
had floated on the sacred lake, the priests had scourged themselves
before the sanctuaries, and the images had been borne through the
streets at night.

And now, as the sun sank on the seventh day, once more the great
procession gathered to chant the woes of Isis and tell how the evil was
avenged. We went in silence from the temple, and passed through the city
ways. First came those who clear the path, then my father Amenemhat in
all his priestly robes, and the wand of cedar in his hand. Then, clad
in pure linen, I, the neophyte, followed alone; and after me the
white-robed priests, holding aloft banners and emblems of the Gods. Next
came those who bear the sacred boat, and after them the singers and
the mourners; while, stretching as far as the eye could reach, all the
people marched, clad in melancholy black because Osiris was no more. We
went in silence through the city streets till at length we came to the
wall of the temple and passed in. And as my father, the High Priest,
entered beneath the gateway of the outer pylon, a sweet-voiced woman
singer began to sing the Holy Chant, and thus she sang:

"Sing we Osiris dead,
Lament the fallen head:
The light has left the world, the world is grey.
Athwart the starry skies
The web of Darkness flies,
And Isis weeps Osiris passed away.
Your tears, ye stars, ye fires, ye rivers, shed,
Weep, children of the Nile, weep for your Lord is dead!"

She paused in her most sweet song, and the whole multitude took up the
melancholy dirge:

"Softly we tread, our measured footsteps falling
Within the Sanctuary Sevenfold;
Soft on the Dead that liveth are we calling:
'Return, Osiris, from thy Kingdom cold!
Return to them that worship thee of old!'"

The chorus ceased, and once again she sang:

"Within the court divine
The Sevenfold sacred shrine
We pass, while echoes of the Temple walls
Repeat the long lament