not his terror thine: 
     He is Armenian, thou of Roman line. 
     We, of Armenia, mock thy dreams to scorn,
     For they are born of night, as truth of morn;
     While Romans hold that dreams are heaven-sent,
     And spring from Jove for man’s admonishment.

     Paul. 
     Though this thy faith—­if thou my dream shouldst hear—­
     My grief must needs be thine, thy fear my fear,
     And, that the horror thou may’st fully prove,
     Know that I—­his dear wife—­did once another love! 
     Nay, start not, shrink not, ’tis no tale of shame,
     For though in other years the heavenly flame
     Descended, kindled, scorched—­it left me pure
     With courage to resign—­with strength to endure. 
     He touched my heart, but never stained the soul
     That gained this hardest conquest—­self-control. 
     At Rome—­where I was born—­a soldier’s eye
     Marked this poor face, from which must Polyeucte fly;
     Severus was his name:—­Ah! memory
     May spare love linked with death a tear, a sigh!

     STRAT. 
     Say, is it he who, at the risk of life,
     Saved Decius from his foes and endless strife? 
     Who, dying, dealt to Persia stroke of death,
     And shouted ‘Victory!’ with his latest breath? 
     His whitening bones, amid the nameless brave,
     Lie still unfound, unknown, without a grave;
     Unburied lies his dust amid the slain,
     While Decius rears an empty urn in vain!

     Paul. 
     Alas! ’tis he; all Rome attests his worth,
     Hide not his memory, kindly Mother Earth! 
     ’Tis but his memory that I adore
     The past is past—­and I can say no more. 
     All gifts save one had he—­yes, Fortune held her hand,
     And I, as Fortune’s slave, obeyed my sire’s command.

     STRAT. 
     Ah!  I must wish that love the day had won!

     Paul. 
     Which duty lost—­then had I been undone;
     Though duty gave, yet duty healed, my pain;
     Yet say not that my love was weak or vain! 
     Our tears fell fast, yet ne’er bore our distress
     The fatal fruit of strife and bitterness. 
     Then, then, I left my hero, hope and Rome,
     And, far from him, I found another home;
     While he, in his despair, sought sure relief
     In death, the only end to life’s long grief! 
     You know the rest:—­you know that Polyeucte’s eye
     Was caught,—­his fancy pleased; his wife am I.
     Once more by counsel of my father led,
     To Armenia’s greatest noble am I wed;
     Ambition, prudence, policy his guide
     Yet only duty made Pauline his bride;
     Love might have bound me to Severus’ heart,
     Had duty not enforced a sterner part. 
     Yes, let these fears attest, all trembling for his life,
     That I am his for aye—­his faithful, loving wife.