CHRYSANTHUS. Not to thee I spoke, for though Humanly thou hast that name, Thou hast forfeited thy claim: I that sweet address now owe Unto him whose holier aim Kindled in my heart a flame Which shall there for ever glow, Woke within me a new soul That thou 'rt powerless to control-- Generated a new life Safe against thy hand or knife: Him a father's name I give Who indeed has made me live, Not to him whose tyrant will Only has the power to kill. Therefore on this dear one dead, On this pallid corse laid low, Lying bathed in blood and snow, By this lifeless lodestone led, I such bitter tears shall shed, That my grief . . . POLEMIUS. Ho! instantly Tear him from it. DARIA (aside). Thus to be By such prodigies surrounded, Leaves me dazzled and confounded. POLEMIUS. Hide the corse. ESCARPIN. Leave that to me (The head and body are concealed). POLEMIUS. Bear Chrysanthus now away To a tower of darksome gloom Which shall be his living tomb. CHRYSANTHUS. That I hear with scant dismay, Since the memory of this day With me there will ever dwell. Fair Daria, fare thee well, And since now thou knowest who Died for love of thee, renew The sweet vow that in the dell Once thou gav'st me, Him to love After death who so loved thee. POLEMIUS. Take him hence. DARIA. Ah! suddenly Light descendeth from above Which my darkness doth remove. Now thy shadowed truth I see, Now the Christian's faith profess. Let thy bloody lictors press Round me, racking every limb, Let me only die with him, Since I openly confess That the gods are false whom we Long have worshipped, that I trust Christ alone--the True--the Just-- The One God, whose power I see, And who died for love of me. POLEMIUS. Take her too, since she in this Boasts how dark, how blind she is. DARIA. Oh! command that I should dwell With Chrysanthus in his cell. In our hearts we long are mated, And ere now had celebrated Our espousals fond and true, If the One same God we knew. CHRYSANTHUS. This sole bliss alone I waited To die happy. POLEMIUS. How my heart Is with wrath and rage possest!-- Hold thy hand, present it not, For I would not have thy lot By the least indulgence blest; Nor do thou, if thy wild brain Such a desperate course maintain, Hope to have her as thy bride-- Trophy of our gods denied:-- Separate them. CHRYSANTHUS. O the pain! DARIA. O the woe! unhappy me!