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Vivia Perpetua

A Dramatic Poem. In Five Acts. By Sarah Flower Adams

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SCENE III.
 IV. 


183

SCENE III.

Morning. The gate of the amphitheatre.
A throng of Citizens, Soldiers, &c. assembled. Barac near the gate.
A LICTOR.
Back there—fall back. Gods! how the fellows swarm;
Enough to fill another hive like that
Within.

A SOLDIER.
Ay, ay; they want a thinning.

FIRST CITIZEN.
He curs'd us all! I told you 'twas himself,
Not us, that Vivius car'd for. Trust my word,
Jove scorns to take such curses; throws them back
To whence they came.

THIRD CITIZEN.
Last night when I went home,
My children still my welcome, 'twas to feel
As seldom feels the poor man with the rich;
We were both men, both fathers,—happier I
Than he; and well I wish'd him like as I.


184

A SOLDIER.
Trumpets, hark!

Enter a Lictor.
LICTOR.
Make way here, right and left—
The præfect comes; and sure in such a mood!
More mad than mood. I ne'er saw man so chang'd.

Enter in procession Hilarianus, Camus, Statius, Ser- vilius, and others; a Tribune; Officers bearing robes; Trumpeters, Guards, &c.
HILARIANUS.
Lictors, is this the way I bade ye clear?
Yield up your rods to nurses, to fright babes;
The air is mobb'd with breaths as the earth with bodies;
The gate looks ruddy, as with heat—or blood!
Camus, I would my office, like to thine,
Forbade my looking on a corpse.

CAMUS.
Wer't lawful,
I would exchange the hour with thee.


185

HILARIANUS.
Way there!

[Enters the gate with his train. Camus, Tribune, Guards, Officers, remain waiting without.
CAMUS.
Tribune, it is not well to array our slaves
(Though it be mockery) in the sacred garb
That services the gods.

TRIBUNE.
One is no slave!

BARAC.
Oh, triumph, triumph,—for an age of scorn!
Oft hath the wish been hungry at my heart,
That I had help'd to mock him in the purple,—
“Hail, king of the Jews!” Food, food, to see
His followers forc'd these heathen robes to wear;
Whose clip will bite more near their cringing souls
Than all those sharpen'd teeth that wait within.

TRIBUNE.
She comes!

CAMUS.
I see her not.


186

TRIBUNE.
Her voice in the air!

BARAC.
Hail, priests of Saturn!—priestesses of Ceres!
Good! This it is to see a martyrdom.

Enter singing
Vivia Perpetua, Felicitas, Saturus, Saturninus, Revocatus. Guards.
Arise,
My soul arise!
Sing with thy latest breath
Christ's conquest over death.
Arise,
My soul arise!
Sing it unto the skies.
Sing it over the earth and under;
There, 'mongst the myriad graves
Of kings or slaves,
Let the song pierce their urns asunder.
Arise,
Our souls arise!
In heaven the angel-band
Stand ready, in each hand
A palm to wave.
On earth a listening throng
Wait the redeeming song
Their souls to save.

187

Below, all silently,
The dead attend the cry,—
O grave,
Where is thy victory?
The branches wave,
Our Lord hath risen on high!
O death,
Where is thy sting?
The dust beneath
Stirs while we sing,—
O grave, where is thy victory?—
O death, where is thy sting?
Arise,
Our souls arise!

LICTOR.
Halt at the gate!

TRIBUNE.
This robing ceremony,—
Custom, not I, enforces it upon you.

SATURNINUS.
And I to custom will my body's force
Oppose. Your guards shall hack me limb from limb
Ere I will die swath'd in idolatrous robes,
Leaving my corpse a badge unto the heathen!

TRIBUNE.
Guards, do your office!


188

BARAC.
Hail, high-priest of Saturn!

SATURUS.
Tribune, thou'rt held to be a man most just.
Should we, who give the treasure of our lives
As purchase for our right to worship Christ,
Have this dishonour put upon us? Say,
Is't justice in your wars to take a ransom,
Holding the while the captive it should free?
In peace, is't honour to evade a bond,
More sacred for a trust, no record held?
We claim'd exemption from all heathen rites:
The price was death—we come to pay that price.
Wouldst make thyself a debtor in our deaths,
Take from us all, nor give the fair return?

TRIBUNE.
Custom must rule in this. Guards, do your office!

VIVIA.
Claudius, a grace!—the last I ask of thee.
Put not this seeming on us; let us shew
For what we are. Thou hast an only daughter:
Say, were she dead—Heav'n give her happy life!—
If one should seek to dress her senseless corpse
In habit of a slave? No, no, you will not,—
I see you will not. We have living souls;
These are to us the habits of a slave.

189

Spare us in this; and when thy child thou seest,
Say, thou returnest home a man enrich'd;—
The blessing of the dying be upon thee!

TRIBUNE.
Pass all within!
[The martyrs pass under the arch singing:
O grave, where is thy victory?
O Death, where is thy sting?
Arise!
Our souls arise!

TRIBUNE.
She flies to death like Fame that wings a triumph!

SOLDIER.
Well, I could pity her, but back it glances
Like an arrow from a shield.

FIRST CITIZEN.
'Tis such a sight
As makes a man think twice. Ay, had her father
But lov'd the people well as she her God!—
Let us away.

CAMUS.
Fame, said'st thou? and triumph?
The death she seeks brings infamy on all

190

Who share her obstinate blood. The Furies now
Lay their keen vipers to her father's heart;
And from henceforth her child I do devote
To whatsoever shame may shew most vile,—
Just retribution that the gods decree!

BARAC.
'Twere time for harvesting.

CAMUS.
What moves the people?

TRIBUNE.
Look! look!—yon smoke—there, by his sycamores—
The oldest in the city—well I know them.
Furies, said'st thou? Vivius hath stol'n their torch;
His house, perchance himself, will soon be ashes!

[Exit Barac.
CAMUS.
Vengeance, yet hold!

[Exit.
TRIBUNE.
Lictors, go seek a guard.
Bring them!—see where bursts forth yon flame!

MOB.
A fire! a fire!

[Exeunt.