Content with the soft lips that love us,
This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys,
We care not for gods up above us—­
We know there’s no god for this earth, boys!

While Lydon’s piety (which accommodating as it might be, was in no slight degree disturbed by these verses, which embodied the fashionable philosophy of the day) slowly recovered itself from the shock it had received, a small party of men, in plain garments and of the middle class, passed by his resting-place.  They were in earnest conversation, and did not seem to notice or heed the gladiator as they moved on.

‘O horror on horrors!’ said one; ’Olinthus is snatched from us! our right arm is lopped away!  When will Christ descend to protect his own?’

’Can human atrocity go farther said another:  ’to sentence an innocent man to the same arena as a murderer!  But let us not despair; the thunder of Sinai may yet be heard, and the Lord preserve his saint.  “The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God."’

At that moment out broke again, from the illumined palace, the burden of the reveller’s song:—­

    We care not for gods up above us—­
       We know there’s no god for this earth, boys!

Ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by sudden indignation, caught up the echo, and, in the words of one of their favorite hymns, shouted aloud:—­

The warning hymn of the Nazarenes

Around—­about—­for ever near thee,
God—­our god—­shall mark and hear thee! 
On his car of storm He sweeps! 
Bow, ye heavens, and shrink, ye deeps! 
Woe to the proud ones who defy Him!—­
Woe to the dreamers who deny Him! 
Woe to the wicked, woe! 
The proud stars shall fail—­
The sun shall grow pale—­
The heavens shrivel up like a scroll—­
Hell’s ocean shall bare
Its depths of despair,
Each wave an eternal soul! 
For the only thing, then,
That shall not live again
Is the corpse of the giant time.

Hark, the trumpet of thunder! 
Lo, earth rent asunder! 
And, forth, on His Angel-throne,
He comes through the gloom,
The Judge of the Tomb,
To summon and save His own! 
Oh, joy to Care, and woe to Crime,
He comes to save His own! 
Woe to the proud ones who defy Him! 
Woe to the dreamers who deny Him! 
Woe to the wicked, woe!

A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel succeeded these ominous words:  the Christians swept on, and were soon hidden from the sight of the gladiator.  Awed, he scarce knew why, by the mystic denunciations of the Christians, Lydon, after a short pause, now rose to pursue his way homeward.