  This is the story of Spiridion, Bishop of Cyprus by the grace of God, Told by Ruffinus in his history. A fair and stately lady was IrenÉ, Spiridion's daughter, and in all the isle Was none so proud; if that indeed be pride, The haughty conscience of great truthfulness, Which makes the spirit faithful unto death, And martyrdom itself a little thing. There came a stranger to Spiridion, A wealthy merchant from the Syrian land, Who, greeting, said: "Good father, I have here A golden casket filled with Roman coin And Eastern gems of cost uncountable. Great are the dangers of the rocky road, False as a serpent is the purple sea, And he who carries wealth in foreign lands Carries his death, too often, near his heart, And finds life's poison where he hoped to find Against its pains a pleasant antidote. I pray you, keep for me these gems in trust, And give them to me when I come again." Spiridion listened with a friendly smile, And answered thus the dark-browed Syrian: "Here is a better guardian of gold,— My daughter, sir. The people of the coast Are wont to say that, if she broke her faith, Silver and gold themselves would lose their shine. "Then," said the Syrian, "she shall be mine As well as theirs,"—and saying this he gave The casket with the jewels to her hand. Right earnestly the lady answered him, As one who slowly turns some curious thought: "Sir, you have called this treasure life and death, Which in your Eastern lore, as I have read, Is the symbolic phrase of Deity, And the most potent phrase to sway the world. With life to death I'll guard the gems for you, And dead or living give them back again." Now while the merchant went to distant Rome The fair IrenÉ died a sudden death, And all the land went mourning for the maid, And on the roads and in the palaces Was one long wail for her by night and day. While thus they grieved, the Syrian came again, And, after fit delay, in proper time Went to the father, to Spiridion, Condoling with him on his daughter's death In many a sad and gentle Eastern phrase, Deep tinctured with a strange philosophy. Now when they had awhile consumed their grief Outspoke the Bishop: "Syrian, it is well If this sad death be not more sad for us, And most especially more sad for thee, Than thou hast dreamed of." Here he checked his speech, And then, as if in utter agony, Burst forth with—"She is gone! and all thy store, It too is gone: she only upon earth Knew where 't was hidden,—and she trusted none. O God, be merciful! What shall I do?" Then on him gravely looked the Syrian With grand, calm mien, as almost pitying, And said: "O father, can this be thy faith? Man of the West, how little didst thou know The wondrous nature of that girl now dead. Hast thou ne'er heard that they who once become Faithful to death are masters over death? And here and there on earth a woman lives Whose eyes proclaim the mighty victory won. Give me thy hand and lead me to the bier: Thou know'st it is not all of death to die." He took his hand and led him to the bier, And they beheld the Beautiful in Death, The perfect loveliness of Grecian form Inspired by Egypt's solemn mystery. The Present, Past, and Future all in one. Awhile they stood and gazed upon the Dead, And then Spiridion spoke, as one inspired: "O God! thou wert our witness,—make it known!" He paused in solemn awe, for at the word There came an awful sign. The dead white hand Was lifted, and IrenÉ's eyes unclosed, Beaming with light as only angels' beam, And from the cold white lips there came a voice: "The gems lie hidden in the garden wall. God bless thee, father, for thy constant love! God bless thee, Syrian, for thy faith in me!" This is the story of Spiridion, And of his daughter, faithful unto death. |
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