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She, who possest her soul in peace
And thoughtful happiness,
With her whole heart had inly join'd
In each devout address.

His lips the while had only moved
In hollow repetition;

For he had steel'd himself, like one
Bound over to perdition.

In present joy he wrapt his heart,
And resolutely cast

All other thoughts beside him,
Of the future, or the past.

V.

TWELVE years have held their quiet course
Since Cyra's nuptial day;

How happily, how rapidly,
Those years have past away!

Blest in her husband she hath been;
He loved her as sincerely,

(Most sinful and unhappy man!)
As he had bought her dearly.

She hath been fruitful as a vine,

And in her children blest; Sorrow hath not come near her yet, Nor fears to shake, nor cares to fret, Nor grief to wound the breast.

And blest alike would her husband be, Were all things as they seem; Eleëmon hath every earthly good, And with every man's esteem.

But where the accursed reed had drawn
The heart-blood from his breast,
A small red spot remain'd
Indelibly imprest.

Nor could he from his heart throw off
The consciousness of his state;
It was there with a dull, uneasy sense,
A coldness and a weight;

It was there when he lay down at night,
It was there when at morn he rose ;
He feels it whatever he does,
It is with him wherever he goes.

No occupation from his mind
That constant sense can keep ;
It is present in his waking hours,
It is present in his sleep;
N 2

But still he felt it most,
And with painfullest weight it prest,
O miserable man!
When he was happiest.

O miserable man,

Who hath all the world to friend,
Yet dares not in prosperity
Remember his latter end!

But happy man, whate'er
His earthly lot may be,
Who looks on Death as the Angel
That shall set his spirit free,
And bear it to its heritage
Of immortality!

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In such faith hath Proterius lived; And strong is that faith and fresh, As if obtaining then new power, When he hath reach'd the awful hour Appointed for all flesh.

Eleëmon and his daughter

With his latest breath he blest, And saying to them, "We shall meet Again before the Mercy-seat!"

Went peacefully to rest.

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Thou art sold to the Demon!"
And his heart seem'd dying away.

Whole Cæsarea is pour'd forth
To see the funeral state,

When Proterius is borne to his resting place
Without the Northern Gate.

Not like a Pagan's is his bier
At doleful midnight borne
By ghastly torchlight, and with wail
Of women hired to mourn.

With tapers in the face of day,
These rites their faithful hope display ;
In long procession slow,

With hymns that fortify the heart,
And prayers that soften woe.

In honour of the dead man's rank,
But of his virtues more,

The holy Bishop Basil

Was one the bier who bore.

And with the Bishop side by side,
As nearest to the dead allied,
Was Eleëmon seen :

All mark'd, but none could rede aright,
The trouble in his mien.

"His master's benefits on him Were well bestow'd," they said, "Whose sorrow now full plainly show'd How well he loved the dead."

They little ween'd what thoughts in him
The solemn psalm awoke,

Which to all other hearts that hour
Its surest comfort spoke :

"Gather my Saints together:

In peace let them be laid,

They who with me," thus saith the Lord, "Their covenant have made!"

What pangs to Eleëmon then,
O wretchedest of wretched men,
That psalmody convey'd!

For conscience told him that he too
A covenant had made.

And when he would have closed his ears Against the unwelcome word,

Then from some elms beside the way A Raven's croak was heard.

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