Poly. 
     I think of more than this; I know what thou wouldst say. 
     Our life is ours to use, and we that debt must pay. 
     What life is this men love?  An idle, empty dream,
     Where nothing can endure,—­where all things only seem. 
     Death ends their every joy which fickle Fortune leaves,
     They gain a royal throne to learn how pomp deceives;
     They gather wealth that men may envy their estate,
     They clear a path by blood, so envy turns to hate. 
     Such vast ambition mine as Caesar never knew,
     Death bounds it not, for death is but its servant true. 
     Peace that the world ne’er gave, and cannot take away,
     That peace, Pauline, is mine, mine wholly, mine for aye! 
     Nor time, nor fate, nor chance, nor cruel war,
     Can touch this peace, or this my kingdom mar. 
     Is this poor life—­the creature of a day
     For endless peace too great a price to pay?

     Paul. 
     ‘Out on these Christian dreams!’ my reason cries;
     Whene’er they speak of truth, they utter lies. 
     Thou say’st:  ‘To win such prize my life is naught!’
     But is thy life thine own?  How was it bought? 
     Our life an heirloom to our country due;
     What gave thee birth, demands thy service too? 
     Pay, then thy debt to her who has the right!

     Poly. 
     Ah, for my country I would gladly fight! 
     I know the glory of a hero’s name,
     I feel the thrill,—­I recognise the claim. 
     My life I owe to whom I owe my sword—­
     But most to Him who gave it—­to the Lord! 
     Oh, if to die for fatherland be sweet,
     To die for Him—­my God—­what word is meet?

     Paul. 
     Which God?

     Poly. 
     Hush! hush!  Pauline; the God who hears
     And answers prayers,—­gives hopes, assuages fears. 
     Thy gods are deaf and senseless, maimed and weak,
     Tongues, mouths they have, and yet they cannot speak. 
     The Christians’ God alone is mine,—­is thine,
     Jehovah only rules—­supreme—­divine!

     Paul. 
     Adore Him in thy heart, but say no word!

     Poly. 
     What!  Can I call Jove and Jehovah—­Lord?

     Paul. 
     One moment feign.  Ah, let Severus go! 
     Let but my father all his kindness show!

     Poly. 
     Another Father mine!  His love most dear
     Removes me from a world begirt with fear. 
     For life’s stern race too weak, too frail am I,
     So, by kind death, He gives me Victory. 
     Pure from the holy font—­(His mercies never fail!)
     He brings His barque to port, when it hath scarce set sail. 
     Couldst thou but understand how poor this earth,
     Couldst thou but grasp how great this second birth! 
     And yet, why speak of treasure rare concealed
     From one to whom light is yet unrevealed?