Classic Poem

Twelve years have held their quiet course
Since Cyra's nuptial day;
How happily, how rapidly,
Those years have past away!

Bless'd 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 bless'd;
Sorrow hath not come near her yet,
Nor fears to shake, nor cares to fret,
Nor grief to wound the breast.

And bless'd alike would her husband be,
Were all things as they seem;
Eleimon 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 impress'd.

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 painfulest weight it press'd,
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.

Eleimon and his daughter
With his latest breath he bless'd,
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,
" Eleimon, Eleimon,
Thou art sold to the Demon! "
And his heart seem'd dying away.

Whole Caesarea 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 honor 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 Eleimon seen:
All mark'd, but none could read 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 Eleimon 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.

To him it seem'd a hollow voice
That warn'd him of his doom;
For the tree whereon the Raven sat
Grew over the Pagan's tomb.