Never were bridal rites more deeply dear Than when of old to bridegroom and to bride That Pagan Empire cried, “False gods revere!”— They turned; they kissed each other; and they died. XII. Fair is this land through which we ride To that far keep, our bridal bower: A sacred land of strength and pride, A land of beauty and of power. A mountain land through virtue bold, High built, and bordering on the sun; A prophet‐trodden land, and old; Our own unvanquished Lebanon! The hermit’s grot her gorges guard— The patriarch’s tomb. There snowy dome And granite ridges sweet with nard O’er‐gaze and fence the patriot’s home. No realm of river‐mouth and pelf; No traffic realm of corn and wine; God keeps, and lifts her, to Himself:— His bride she is, as I am thine. When down that Moslem deluge rolled, The Faith, enthroned ’mid ruins, sat Here, in her Lebanonian hold, Firm as the ark on Ararat. War still is hers, though loving peace; War—not for empire, but her Lord;— A lion land of slow increase; For trenchant is the Moslem sword. XIII. Alas! that sufferer weak and wan Whom, yester‐eve, our journey o’er, Deserted by the caravan, We found upon our gallery floor! How long she gasped upon my breast! We bathed her brows in wine and myrrh;— How death‐like sank at last to rest While rose the sun! I feared to stir. All night I heard our bridal bells That chimed so late o’er springing corn: Half changed they seemed to funeral knells— She, too, had had her bridal morn! Revived she woke. The pang was past: She woke to live, to smile, to breathe: Oh! what a look was that she cast, Awaking, on my nuptial wreath XIV. High on the hills the nuptial feast was spread: Descending, choir to choir the maidens sang, “Safe to her home our beauteous bride is led,” While, each to each, the darkening ledges rang. From vale and plain came up the revellers’ shout: Maidens with maidens danced, and men with men; Till, one by one, the festal fires burned out By lonely waters. There was silence then. Keen flashed the stars, with breath that came and went, Through mountain chasms:—around, beneath, above, They whispered, glancing through the bridal tent, “We too are lovers: heaven is naught but love!” Assunta Howard. III. In Extremis.