STRAT. 
     Thy new love true and tender as the old:—­
     But this thy dream?  No more thy tale withhold!

     Paul. 
     Last night I saw Severus:  but his eye
     With anger blazed; his port was proud and high,
     No suppliant he—­no feeble, formless shade,
     With dim, averted eye; no sword had made
     My hero lifeless ghost.  Nor wound, nor scar
     Marked death his only conqueror in war. 
     Nor spoil of death, nor memory’s child was he,
     His mien triumphant, full of majesty! 
     So might victorious Caesar near his home
     To claim the key to every heart in Rome! 
     He spoke:  in nameless awe I heard his voice,—­
     ’Give love, that is my due, to him—­thy choice,—­
     But know, oh faithless one, ere day expires,
     All vain these tears for him thy heart desires!’
     Anon a Christian band (an impious horde),
     With shameful cross in hand, attest his word;
     They vouch Severus’ truth—­and, to complete
     My doom, hurl Polyeucte beneath his feet! 
     I cried, ‘O father, timely succour bear!’
     He heard, he came, my grief was now despair! 
     He drew his dagger—­plunged it in the breast
     Of him, my husband, late his honoured guest! 
     Relief came but from agony supreme—­
     I shrieked—­I writhed—­I woke—­it was a dream! 
     And yet my dream is true!

     STRAT. 
     ’Tis true your dream is sad,
     But now you are awake, ’tis but a dream you had! 
     For horror’s prey in darkness of the night
     Is but our reason’s sport in morning light. 
     How can you dread a shade?  How a fond father fear,
     Who as a son regards the man you hold so dear? 
     To phantom of the night no credence yield;
     For him and you he chose thy strength and shield.

     Paul. 
     You say his words:  at all my fears he smiles,
     But I must dread these Christians and their wiles! 
     I dread their vengeance, wreaked upon my lord,
     For Christian blood my father has outpoured!

     STRAT. 
     Their sect is impious, mad, absurd and vain,
     Their rites repulsive, as their cult profane. 
     Deride their altar, their weak frenzy ban,
     Yet do they war with gods and not with man! 
     Relentless wills our law that they must die: 
     Their joy—­endurance; death—­their ecstasy;
     Judged—­by decree, the foes of human race,
     Meekly their heads they bow—­to court disgrace!

     Paul. 
     My father comes—­oh, peace!

     (Enter Felix and Albin)

     Felix. 
     Nay, peace is flown! 
     Thy dream begets dull fears, till now unknown;
     In part this dream is true, and for the rest——­

     Paul. 
     By what new fear, say, is thy heart opprest?

     Felix. 
     Severus lives!