I too am new baptized, baptized in blood! 
     These drops that fell from off the murderous knife,
     Have made the martyr’s widow a true wife. 
     I see!—­I feel!—­I know!  My darkest night
     Is o’er—­to break in purest heavenly light. 
     I too, at last, am Christ’s:  that word says all,
     Those hands were pierced for me—­I hear His call: 
     Death—­lovely death—­thy beckoning hand I hail! 
     Oh, help my passage, or thy schemes may fail! 
     Dread Decius!  Fear Severus!  Fear thy fall! 
     Oh, speed me to my lord—­my love—­my all! 
     My husband calls me to his happier land—­
     See!—­there Nearchus at his side doth stand! 
     Lead me to these—­the gods by thee confest,
     Some shrines spared Polyeucte, I will break the rest! 
     There, there the gods thou fearest I will brave,
     Oh, bare thy knife!—­no other gift I crave.
     Thou hast my master been:  another Lord
     Claims my obedience now; yes, raise thy sword! 
     Revolt is holy when for Christ we fight,—­
     My day has dawned, the day that knows no night! 
     Once more I cry—­’Christ only has my heart!’
     Thy bliss and mine secure!  Let me depart! 
     Keep thou thy kingdom!  Safe its treasure hold! 
     My kingdom there—­with Christ—­within the fold!

     (Enter Severus)

     SEV. 
     Unnatural sire, whose craft leads to the grave,
     The slaves of fear themselves alone enslave. 
     Yes, Polyeucte is slain, and slain by thee,—­
     A sacrifice to greed and treachery. 
     I offered rescue from the opening tomb,
     Base doubts enthralled thee, didst seal his doom;
     I prayed, I threatened, thou wouldst not believe,
     Deceiver thou, so must all men deceive. 
     Thou thoughtst me coward, liar—­thou shalt see
     All oaths Severus swears fulfilled shall be. 
     Poor moth!  I might have saved thee—­nay, I planned to save,
     Thy perfidy the torch that marks thee for the grave. 
     Drench earth in blood,—­for Jove pour forth malignant zeal,
     The strokes that thou hast dealt redoubled shalt thou feel! 
     I go:  the storm shall break o’er this devoted land,
     From Jove the bolt?—­maybe—­but I direct his hand.

     FELIX. 
     Why lags that hand?  A willing victim I,
     I choose to suffer for my perfidy;
     My doubts, my fears unworthy, all I own,
     I have offended—­let my death atone. 
     Take thou my honours, their poor lustre thine,
     I kneel before another, nobler shrine. 
     The Power that moved me, groping through the night
     Of wrong and darkness, wafts me to The Light! 
     I slew thee, Polyeucte, but thy pardoning hand
     Shall guide thy murderer to the better land! 
     He prays for me, and by his sacrifice,
     New-born upon his ashes