Next, with like action and like words,
Upon her brow he set

Her coronal, intwined wherein

The rose and lily met;
How beautifully they beseem'd
Her locks of glossy jet!

Her he for Eleëmon crown'd,
The Servant of the Lord;..
Alas, how little did that name
With his true state accord!

"Crown them with honour, Lord!" he said, "With blessings crown the righteous head! To them let peace be given,

A holy life, a hopeful end,
A heavenly crown in Heaven !"

Still as he made each separate prayer For blessings that they in life might share, And for their eternal bliss,

The echoing Choristers replied,
"O Lord, so grant thou this!"

How differently meantime, before
The altar as they knelt,

While they the sacred rites partake
Which endless matrimony make,
The Bride and Bridegroom felt!

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.

TWELVE

years

V.

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;

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!

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.

This is the balm which God
Hath given for every grief;
And Cyra, in her anguish,
Look'd heavenward for relief.

But her miserable husband
Heard a voice within him say,
Eleëmon, Eleëmon,

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.