Near. 
     The cause is just, is true—­O coward heart, be still! 
     I lived to doubt His word—­I die to do His Will!

ACT III—­PAULINE

     Paul. 
     Cares—­clouded and confused—­oppress, obscure
     In changeful forms, my eye, my heart, my mind: 
     My soul finds room for every guest save one;
     Fair hope has flown,—­no star can pierce my night: 
     Each tyrant rages ’gainst opposing foe
     In deadly fight—­yet brings to light no friend: 
     In travail sore hope comes not to the birth—­
     Fear hydra-headed terror still begets;—­
     All fancies grim I see, and straight embrace,
     At hope I clutch, who still eludes my grasp;
     Her rainbow hues adored are but a frame
     That serve by contrast to make fear more dark. 
     Severus haunts me—­oh, I know his love,
     Yet hopeless love must mate with jealousy,—­
     While Polyeucte, who has won what he has lost,
     Can meet no rival with an equal eye. 
     The fruit of rivalry is ever hate
     And envy; both must still engender strife: 
     One sees that rival hand has grasped his prize,
     The other yearns for prize himself has missed. 
     Weak reason naught, when headlong passion reigns,
     For valour seeks a sword, and love—­revenge. 
     One fears to see the prize he gained impaired,
     The other would that wrested prize regain;
     While patience, duty, conscience, vail their heads
     ’Fore obstinate defence and fierce attack. 
     Such steeds no charioteer controls—­for they
     Mistake both curb and reign for maddening whip. 
     Ah! what a base, unworthy fear is mine! 
     How ill I read these fair, these noble souls,
     Whose virtue must all common snares o’erleap! 
     Their gold unstained by dross or mean alloy! 
     As generous foes so will they—­must they meet! 
     Yet are they rivals—­this the thought that kills! 
     Not even here—­at home—­is Polyeucte safe,
     The eagle wings of Rome reach over all. 
     Oh, if my father bow to Roman might,
     If he repent the choice that he hath made,—­
     At this one thought hope’s flame leaps up to die! 
     Or—­if new-born—­dies ere she see the light. 
     Hope but deceived,—­my fear alone I trust,
     Heaven grant such confidence be false—­be vain!

     (Enter Stratonice.)

     Nay, let me know the worst!  What, girl!—­no word? 
     The rites are o’er?  What hast thou seen—­what heard? 
     They met in amity?—­In peace they part?

     STRAT. 
     Alas!  Alas!

     Paul. 
     Nay, soothe my aching heart! 
     I would have comfort,—­but this face of woe—­
     A quarrel?

     STRAT. 
     Polyeucte—­Nearchus—­go—­
     The Christians—­