Benison

That elf-maiden smote with her hand so white, “Sorrow and sickness on thee alight” That elf-maiden smote with her cap so small, “No more shall priest's benison on thee fall!”

Poor old men! how could they be cordial with their sore consciences and shamed faces? how could they bid God bless him with hearty voices and a true benison, knowing, as they did, that their vile cabal had driven him from his happy home, and sent him in his old age to seek shelter under a strange roof-tree?