PAUL. Cares--clouded and confused--oppress, obscure In changeful forms, my eye, my heart, my mind: My soul finds room for every guest save one; Fair hope has flown,--no star can pierce my night: Each tyrant rages 'gainst opposing foe In deadly fight--yet brings to light no friend: In travail sore hope comes not to the birth-- Fear hydra-headed terror still begets;-- All fancies grim I see, and straight embrace, At hope I clutch, who still eludes my grasp; Her rainbow hues adored are but a frame That serve by contrast to make fear more dark. Severus haunts me--oh, I know his love, Yet hopeless love must mate with jealousy,-- While Polyeucte, who has won what he has lost, Can meet no rival with an equal eye. The fruit of rivalry is ever hate And envy; both must still engender strife: One sees that rival hand has grasped his prize, The other yearns for prize himself has missed. Weak reason naught, when headlong passion reigns, For valour seeks a sword, and love--revenge. One fears to see the prize he gained impaired, The other would that wrested prize regain; While patience, duty, conscience, vail their heads 'Fore obstinate defence and fierce attack. Such steeds no charioteer controls--for they Mistake both curb and reign for maddening whip. Ah! what a base, unworthy fear is mine! How ill I read these fair, these noble souls, Whose virtue must all common snares o'erleap! Their gold unstained by dross or mean alloy! As generous foes so will they--must they meet! Yet are they rivals--this the thought that kills! Not even here--at home--is Polyeucte safe, The eagle wings of Rome reach over all. Oh, if my father bow to Roman might, If he repent the choice that he hath made,-- At this one thought hope's flame leaps up to die! Or--if new-born--dies ere she see the light. Hope but deceived,--my fear alone I trust, Heaven grant such confidence be false--be vain! (Enter Stratonice.) Nay, let me know the worst! What, girl!--no word? The rites are o'er? What hast thou seen--what heard? They met in amity?--In peace they part? STRAT. Alas! Alas! PAUL. Nay, soothe my aching heart! I would have comfort,--but this face of woe-- A quarrel? STRAT. Polyeucte--Nearchus--go-- The Christians-- PAUL. What of them? STRAT. Ah, how to speak-- PAUL. They on my father would their vengeance wreak? STRAT. Oh, fear whate'er thou wilt--that fear too small! PAUL. The Christians rise? STRAT. Oh, would that this were all! Thy dream, Pauline, is true; Polyeucte is---- PAUL. Dead?