_Opas_. Ne’er will the peace or apathy of age Be thine, or twilight steal upon thy day. The violent choose, but cannot change, their end: Violence, by man or nature, must be theirs: Thine it must be, and who to pity thee? _Rod._ Behold, my solace! none. I want no pity. _Opas_. Proclaim we those the happiest of mankind Who never knew a want? Oh, what a curse To thee this utter ignorance of thine! Julian, whom all the good commiserate, Sees thee below him far in happiness: A state indeed of no quick restlessness, No glancing agitation, one vast swell Of melancholy, deep, impassable, Interminable, where his spirit alone Broods and o’ershadows all, bears him from earth, And purifies his chastened soul for heaven. Both heaven and earth shall from thy grasp recede. Whether on death or life thou arguest, Untutored savage or corrupted heathen Avows no sentiment so vile as thine. Rod. Nor feels? _Opas_. O human nature! I have heard The secrets of the soul, and pitied thee. Bad and accursed things have men confessed Before me, but have left them unarrayed. Naked, and shivering with deformity. The troubled dreams and deafening gush of youth Fling o’er the fancy, struggling to be free, Discordant and impracticable things: If the good shudder at their past escapes, Shall not the wicked shudder at their crimes? They shall—and I denounce upon thy head God’s vengeance—thou shalt rule this land no more. _Rod._ What! my own kindred leave me and renounce me! _Opas_. Kindred? and is there any in our world So near us, as those sources of all joy, Those on whose bosom every gale of life Blows softly, who reflect our images In loveliness through sorrows and through age, And bear them onward far beyond the grave. _Rod._ Methinks, most reverend Opas, not inapt Are these fair views; arise they from Seville? _Opas_. He, who can scoff at them, may scoff at me. Such are we, that the giver of all good Shall, in the heart he purifies, possess The latest love—the earliest—no, not there! I’ve known the firm and faithful—even from these Life’s eddying spring shed the first bloom on earth. I pity them, but ask their pity too. I love the happiness of men, and praise And sanctify the blessings I renounce. _Rod._ Yet would thy baleful influence undermine The heaven-appointed throne. _Opas_.—the throne of guilt Obdurate, without plea, without remorse. _Rod._ What power hast thou? perhaps thou soon wilt want A place of refuge. _Opas_. Rather say, perhaps My place of refuge will receive me soon. Could I extend it even to thy crimes, It should be open; but the wrath of heaven Turns them against thee, and subverts thy sway: It leaves thee not, what wickedness and woe Oft in their drear communion taste together, Hope and repentance.