At last, the cliff,—­and in the cliff a door
Yawning:  and she looked in, as down the throat
Of some stupendous giant, and beheld
No floor, but wide, worn, flights of steps, that led
Into a dimness.  When the eyes could bear
That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight,
Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down,
Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. 
So she did enter; also she went down
Till it was dark, and yet again went down,
Till, gazing upward at that yawning door,
It seemed no larger, in its height remote,
Than a pin’s head.  But while, irresolute,
She doubted of the end, yet farther down
A slender ray of lamplight fell away
Along the stair, as from a door ajar: 
To this again she felt her way, and stepped
Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light;
But fear fell on her, fear; and she forbore
Entrance, and listened.  Ay! ’twas even so,—­
A sigh; the breathing as of one who slept
And was disturbed.  So she drew back awhile,
And trembled; then her doubting hand she laid
Against the door, and pushed it; but the light
Waned, faded, sank; and as she came within—­
Hark, hark!  A spirit was it, and asleep? 
A spirit doth not breathe like clay.  There hung
A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared
A flickering speck of light, and disappeared;
Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes,
That fell on some one resting, in the gloom,—­
Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape
That loomed.  It was a heifer, ay, and white,
Breathing and languid through prolonged repose.

Was it a heifer? all the marble floor
Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled,
And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed.

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out,—­
The whiteness,—­and asleep again! but now
It was a woman, robed, and with a face
Lovely and dim.  And Gladys while she gazed
Murmured, “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.”

The woman coming down!  “Child, what art doing here?” the woman said; “What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn?” (Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud,—­ pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelowed.) The air is dim with dust of spiced bones.  I mark a crypt down there.  Tier upon tier Of painted coffers fills it.  What if we, Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst,—­ Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, And all the gear they took to bed with them!  Horrible!  Let us hence.