_Jul._ Slaves! not before I lift My voice to heaven and man: though enemies Surround me, and none else, yet other men And other times shall hear: the agony Of an opprest and of a bursting heart No violence can silence; at its voice The trumpet is o’erpowered, and glory mute, And peace and war hide all their charms alike. Surely the guests and ministers of heaven Scatter it forth thro’ all the elements, So suddenly, so widely, it extends, So fearfully men breathe it, shuddering To ask or fancy how it first arose. _Muza_. Yes, they shall shudder—but will that, henceforth, Molest my privacy, or shake my power? _Jul._ Guilt hath pavilions, but no privacy. The very engine of his hatred checks The torturer in his transport of revenge, Which, while it swells his bosom, shakes his power And raises friends to his worst enemy. _Muza_. Where now are thine? will they not curse the day That gave thee birth, and hiss thy funeral? Thou hast left none who could have pitied thee. _Jul._ Many, nor those alone of tenderer mould, For me will weep—many alas thro’ me! Already I behold my funeral. The turbid cities wave and swell with it, And wrongs are lost in that day’s pageantry: Opprest and desolate, the countryman Receives it like a gift; he hastens home, Shews where the hoof of Moorish horse laid waste His narrow croft and winter garden-plot, Sweetens with fallen pride his children’s lore, And points their hatred; but applauds their tears. Justice, who came not up to us thro’ life, Loves to survey our likeness on our tombs, When rivalry, malevolence, and wrath, And every passion that once stormed around, Is calm alike without them as within. Our very chains make the whole world our own, Bind those to us who else had past us by, Those at whose call brought down to us, the light Of future ages lives upon our name. _Muza_. I may accelerate that meteor’s fall, And quench that idle ineffectual light Without the knowledge of thy distant world. _Jul._ My world and thine are not that distant one. Is age less wise, less merciful, than grief, To keep this secret from thee, poor old man? Thou canst not lessen, canst not aggravate My sufferings, canst not shorten nor extend Half a sword’s length between my God and me. I thank thee for that better thought than fame, Which none however, who deserve, despise, Nor lose from view till all things else are lost. _Abd._ Julian, respect his age, regard his power. Many who feared not death, have dragged along A piteous life in darkness and in chains. Never was man so full of wretchedness But something may be suffered after all, Perhaps in what clings round his breast, and helps To keep the ruin up, which he amidst His agony and phrenzy overlooks, But droops upon at last, and clasps, and dies.