University of Virginia Library

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

Garden of Vivia Perpetua.
FELICITAS.
Yet pacing to and fro; and where so oft
I've seen her glide about, or smiling wait
To look upon some flow'r that pleas'd her fancy.
A sorry chance for rest, methinks, have they
Who hurry up and down for it. She stops;
What looks she at?—the amphitheatre?
Has she a mind to see the festival,
And so forget? She turns, and comes this way:
I'll try and wile her from those troubling thoughts
Back to her garden.

Enter Vivia.
VIVIA.
Saturus is come?

FELICITAS.
Nay, madam; see, the season's coming on:
The lilies here are struggling through the mould.

VIVIA.
Again another voice, and still reproach:
They give green promise that their summer's prime
Shall waft sweet proclamation on the air
Of Him who loved the lilies of the field.
Inanimate things above their natures rise,
To bear him witness; I alone am mute—
Mute to deceive.

FELICITAS.
Dear lady, sure to know
A treasure safe one's own, it were enough:
For me, I like to look straight in the eyes
That think they have the rule of me,—my thought
Meanwhile, nor you nor any are my Master,
Save only One above—the Lord of all!—
Come, let thy garden pleasure thee again.

VIVIA.
There are too many thorns. Felicitas,
He wore them as a crown; for me, alas,
They are a wilderness! Oh, mighty Counsellor,
Would that thy human self again wert here,
To shew the way!

FELICITAS.
But Saturus has said,
A blessing waits on those who do believe,
Not having seen.

VIVIA.
Sure they were doubly bless'd
Who saw his face—who listen'd to his words.
O happy Mary, thou of Bethany,
Give me but one of all those precious hours
That found thee at his feet!

FELICITAS.
Madam, but see
How the buds open on the olive-trees.

VIVIA.
To breathe of blessings from the sacred mount.
Look round, Felicitas—all bear Him witness:
Yon fountain—was't a fountain? nay, a well—
Was hallow'd by a promise, while he made
His wayside-rest in bann'd Samaria;—
What says that silver whisper? Speak for Him
Who gave thee living water. The free waves
All chorus forth—We sing of Galilee;
Of Him who said unto the world's fierce storms,
As to our raging waters, Peace, be still!
The amphitheatre, e'en now it swell'd
Out of the dusk, big with this history,
That Christ did suffer death to give all life;
Me life, that have not even voice for Him,
While breathless things all utter forth his praise.
Those marble forms within, do they not grow
Intelligent with my oft-repeated vows,
And seem to live again their noble deeds
To emulate his life? I idle as stone.

FELICITAS.
Dear madam, best go in—'tis chill,—and see,
The light hath faded from the temple's height.

VIVIA.
The temple?—yes, to the temple! Standing there
For the last time, will I unto great Jove
Tell out my faith, and make renunciation.

FELICITAS.
But think—

VIVIA.
And act!

[They enter within.

SCENE II.

Vivius and Statius in the house of Vivius.
VIVIUS.
Thus for your part in it,—how say you? Speak!

STATIUS.
You're a bold planner; and bethink you well
You wear the silver crown. He is the man
Who had the pow'r to send this weakness hither,
As you have call'd the præfect.

VIVIUS.
Had! Good word.
Though of the past, it comes with prophecy.
Look you, good Statius: what was Plautianus,
He who doth rule the ruler of the capitol?
Base born, more basely bred, an exil'd wretch,
For that low vice, the slander of his betters—
What else was his sedition—his, or any?
He labour'd hard to sow his blacken'd grain
Amongst the wholesome corn. Mark you, he fail'd.

STATIUS.
But what is Plautianus?

VIVIUS.
Still the seditious knave.
Although he sits at Rome, as he had twinn'd
With the emperor at a birth; grasps in his hands
The pow'rs of the state like to a petty Jove,
And they his thunderbolts; weds his brown daughter
With Bassianus, sure to strike his root
Deep in the imperial forest (note you that);
Still the seditious knave who was exiled.
His daughter weds he with Severus' son—
The daughter of this slave!—the elder son,
Though not the better. Geta yet remains,
And Geta hath the legions at his back.

STATIUS.
His age but just fifteen. I know it well
By this his festival.

VIVIUS.
When comes my pow'r,
I will create thine office registrar
Of the city's ages, save the cost the while
Of scroll or stylus. Nay, take hearty thanks.
Fifteen? The elder's very time when he
Married this minion. Geta's festival!
Had I been consul—but to Plautianus:
Ask yet another, “What?” what he shall be!
How shews the eagle of this Jupiter
The while—the Roman eagle? Eye on fire,
And feathers all astir, at each caress
Of his plebeian hand. The time will come,
Nor far remote, for the bird to slip, to mount,
And with one stoop to beak him to the heart!
Once he has fail'd—to fail but once again.

STATIUS.
This festival,—you said, had you been consul—

VIVIUS.
The people's greed had been the better fed,
They should have feasted full in the arena.
They hold with you the while you find them shows:
Howe'er they think themselves aggriev'd, provide
Some tawdry folly, or some barbarous sport,
They throw up caps for you, and idly shout,
And give you godship, where before your bribe
They tongued you to the Furies. Now, dost wonder
Contempt feeds full upon such ready food?
These pleasures, as they call them, are to me
Lightnings, that clear the garden of our state
From insects, noxious, mischief-breeding Christians!
Hast seen a galley making for the harbour?
Or I mistake, she speeds the coming bolt—
Meantime, the business—

STATIUS.
One moment, say—
That Jew, how much had he for vouching, think ye?

VIVIUS.
Dog! he in thy thought? His pocket vouches
For taking all the coin that he can catch;
Say, steal—or else. He first the wealthiest tries.
Now how to win it? No way shews but this—
That to a man unsullied in his life
Sometimes there clings a fear lest foul report
Arise to taint him; and we know how oft
Envy doth make profession of belief
In ill, where most she feels amount of good.

STATIUS.
He knows you not? You fear him not?

VIVIUS.
Fear him! Fear is the word we give the gods,
And them alone. It shames me as I think
That he could ruffle me. Come o'er again,
I should go bid him catechise my son
In his new faith, or hear my daughter pray
Unto their niggard Deity, the while
Myself did strip the household altar bare
Of our Penates. Oh, 'twas shame to waste
So good an earnestness!

STATIUS.
And is this all?

VIVIUS.
Of Plautianus? Nay.

STATIUS.
Of the Jew, I mean.

VIVIUS.
Gods! let him go.

STATIUS.
And I with him. My time
Already is outstaid.

VIVIUS.
And mine is lost. [Aside.
[They rise.


STATIUS.
Wilt pass me through thy garden?

VIVIUS.
Willingly.

STATIUS.
Thy robe as well as mine.

VIVIUS.
No need for it;
The sky is fair. Not quite an old man yet,
For all the silver crown.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A terrace.
Enter Vivius and Statius from within.
STATIUS.
Fair skies have often clouds. Yonder is one.

VIVIUS.
Who heeds the clouds above, clear way below?
Ha! look you there; there is the Roman galley.
Mark, how she sways uneasy, as she knew
Despatch were writ upon the tidings in her.

STATIUS.
Your key fits easily.

VIVIUS.
So do not all into their fittest place.

STATIUS.
The cloud wears off; no rain will fall to-night.

VIVIUS.
I would there were no night—no sleep,—that we
Might keep for ever on the stir.

STATIUS.
Farewell.

[Exit.
VIVIUS.
Farewell!—key, a good turn; I thank thee.
No, he was ne'er the man to win his way.
Thus it hath always been—no, not so near—
The flower of bright success within a clutch,
He turns and stoops to potter with a weed.
His “silver crown!”—I would that twenty bodies
As hale were at my beck, that I might fill them
With the brimmings of my spirit!—ay, 'twould serve.
Now ends the life-long struggle I have held
To keep the just supremacy of birth.
How have I seen, in the channels of the state—
(Those made to keep alive the general health)
Plebeian blood still stagnate!—I will use
The popular wave—'tis strong; for, left unguided,
Doth it not know the trick of devastation?—
To aid me as I sweep between the banks,
Back to its native marsh, this idle blackness.
I would that Statius had not been so dull:
He is the leader of your cautious flock,
The sheep o' the city,—each going after each,
The known track following,—sure, if he took the leap,
They to leap after—where? No matter, so
He were their leader. Numbers act on numbers,—
Fools help to swell a crowd, like better men.
Well, we must triumph singly—more the honour:
While Vivia waits with ready crown, the Fame,
To breathe undying glory round our name.

SCENE IV.

Temple of Jupiter Olympus.
Vivia Perpetua at an altar burning before a statue of the god.
VIVIA.

SCENE V.

Tablinum in the house of Vivia Perpetua.
Enter Felicitas.
FELICITAS.
She's home; but what of all this care within?
Why, such another tarrying without
Of one hath liv'd so close, would raise a question;
And there are spies who use their eyes like cats,
The better in the dark. 'Tis like enough
She hath been watch'd; and sure the man I saw,
While looking out, shrink sham'd away, was one
On no good errand. Comes the fear lest she
Should peril us? 'tis like to check a pride
I had in winning her—her father's jewel.
(Christ wear her in his crown, and pardon me!)
She scarce can keep her secret; 'deed her face
Tells the whole history; let him read it, and
We all were lost; for sure he hates us Christians
Much more than he loves her. 'Twas a strange fancy
To go and tell her mind to stocks and stones!
But she is good—oh, better far than I;
And she was near a Christian in her heart
Or e'er she knew His name. She comes. How pale!

Enter Vivia Perpetua.
VIVIA.
Why—why is this? these grappling human ties!
Whence that sweet aptness for thy rest, my boy?
Thou suck'st it not from me.

FELICITAS.
Madam, no fear;
'Tis I.

VIVIA.
No fear; 'tis weariness alone:
The body is o'ertax'd, and timid made.
My pace was still the goad to wavering strength,
Lest I should miss the hour for Saturus.
Would he were here!

FELICITAS.
Dear lady, as I sat
Watching for your return, a footstep came—
I open'd quick, thinking 'twas his,—as quick
A stranger form slunk off beneath the arch,
Sly as a lizard.

VIVIA.
In the time of shadows,
The eye, half seeing, falls a dupe to fancy;
Or shade or substance, naught is it for fear.
Go, good Felicitas, again thy watch;
'Tis more than time, if measur'd by my need.—
[Exit Felicitas.
Thy rest—thy mother will not guard it long:
But now a mist rose up 'twixt thee and me—
'Twas more than tears,—as though dividing us.
Dear Christ, who bless'd those little ones, thou sure
Wilt care for him, should I—That temple chill'd me.
This is a more than weariness I feel;—
A sense of death, now newly wak'd within.
Peace, peace! And dwell not peace and death together?
His aspect grim now wears an angel's face;
Though all is shadow underneath his wing,
Yet is it shelter—peace, even in death.

Enter Saturus.
SATURUS.
Peace be within this house!

VIVIA.
Now all is well.

SATURUS.
Peace, even in death?—You thought of Him
Whose legacy was “peace,” even in death;
Whose first immortal blessing on the Twelve,
When he had overcome the Conqueror,
Was, “Peace be unto you!”—you thought of Him:
Why are you silent?

VIVIA.
Under thy rebuke,
Which mine own conscience sharpens to rebuke,
Not thy intent; myself and mine own sorrow
Usurp'd the place of Him thou wilt restore.

SATURUS.
Lives there a sorrow that Christ cannot heal?
Nay, sorrow dies; and dying, she bequeaths
A rich endowment for a noble joy;
Dissolves in light, to bid us hold her tears
As precious dews that visit us from heav'n,
To nurture up the soul to richer growth;
Our light afflictions are but for a moment:
Is there a sorrow that Christ cannot heal?

VIVIA.
Oh, question not of mine! But I of thee
Must ask for strength. Oft with a sickly child
The nurse doth wile the time with histories strange:
You are my soul's best minister; and I
Now crave the promis'd history of thy faith.
Thou wert not Christian born?

SATURUS.
The dawn doth come
Before the sun ariseth to the sight.
Man's soul hath many chords; like yonder lyre,
Which, separately struck, yield out a tone,
That is not music, but the help to it;
Or, with more aptness to my thought, say this,—
The natural wind passing athwart the strings
Whispers of what the master's hand alone
Can render into fullest harmony.
So seemeth me a voice hath breath'd in man
Oracular since first he was created:
This bade the rude barbarian of the forest
To lift up longing eyes unto the sky
(The speckled intervals between the leaves)
To read the hope of better life and lands;
This swell'd the burden of old prophecy;
Taught calm philosophy to stretch beyond
Her measur'd track to reach the prophet's strain.
The poet heard it, and did wing his way,
The more divine his song, the nearer heaven;
And in our own old faith it hath enfolded
Some types of the “to come,” which now thou hast;
Art, while she listen'd to the poet's lyre,
Did then create her fairest in those forms,
That thron'd on radiant clouds, high o'er our heads,
The souls of those once here, beatified
Into the deities of Greece or Rome.

VIVIA.
When spake the voice to thee?

SATURUS.
First in the night
(When silence else was angel of the hour),
While poring o'er those yet illumin'd scrolls,—
The urns that shrine the poet's burning thoughts,—
From whence, the while we glowing contemplate,
New thought springs phœnix-like from out their ashes.
Of him I read, that glorious Titan old,
Stronger than Strength, master of strenuous Force,
Whose spirit urg'd endurance through his frame,
In mightier torrent than the blood his life:
His spirit—was't rebellion? Nay, not then
Such question did I make—the natural wind
But whisper'd in the strings—for while I read,
A pow'r above Jove's pow'r breath'd out of him.
As he his fire, he wil'd my worship down
From huge Olympus to the Caucasus;
With old Oceanus my breast did heave;
With wandering Io did I blessing join
To give to this redeemer of our race;
And when his fate gather'd to wilder fury,
I will'd with him to sink in Tartarus,
So I might worship still, rather than rise
To reign a god, though Jove had given me place
To sit beside him on a tyrant's throne.

VIVIA.
That poet's lyre did prophesy of Christ,
And yet no string did vibrate of our Father.

SATURUS.
Jove's thunder peal'd too loudly in the heavens,
Yet was love's whisper heard above the roar.
I listen'd till it reft me of the god,
Who, throned on clouds, the lightning in his grasp,
Thunder his voice, and vengeance swift his act,
Doom'd my Prometheus! I did refuse
Him utterly. Yet where and whom to seek?
The soul asks more than fable for a worship.
To the realities of earth I turn'd:
Of earth indeed!
Then rose the gloom of doubt; for when I saw
Oppression crush down man with iron foot,
And tyranny make strong iniquity,
And no redeemer for man's misery,
Save in one poet's solitary fable,
Sad eyes, despairing of a deity,
Turn'd vaguely upward to the azure heav'ns
As empty of all governance for man.

VIVIA.
There is a thought—say, would it be a sin
To track a mystery?

SATURUS.
Woe for the truth,
Had every mystery remain'd untrack'd!

VIVIA.
There are some mysteries, I scarce begin
To thread them, but from out them up springs love,
Flies through them like a bird along a grove,
And sings them to forgetfulness, in joy.
But one e'en now doth come to hold her mute:
Oppression yet doth crush with iron foot,
And tyranny makes strong iniquity,
Though a Redeemer hath appear'd for man,
Who bade us look to heaven for a God
Who made us, loves us, bids us love each other;
Our will is happiness for those we love,—
Our power is so much weaker than our will;—
But Love omnipotent?—

SATURUS.
I do believe,
Were love omnipotent within ourselves,
Woe were extinct. I cannot answer thee—
I am but man, while He is God o'er all.
Yet as a man shew manliness in this,
That I will trust the Pow'r hath given me all,
Nor meanly scant my thankfulness with doubt.
The mystery sleeps, while Faith, with arms afold
Over a trusting heart, sits smiling by.
It sleeps, o'ercanopied by starry heavens,
And cradled in earth's beauty. Let it rest:
While sunshine comes to herald in the day;
While flow'rs and breezes intermingle sweets;
While birds still warble gladness out, like light
Athwart the azure heav'ns; while mountains stand—
Those silent, shadowy chroniclers of time—
To wake within our eyes and hearts a worship;
While yon great joy of God, the ocean, heaves
To seek the skies that mate it in his glory;
While stately pageants throng the heav'ns by day,
And multitudinous brightness crowds the night;
While the calm interposing twilight comes,
Tender and gracious, hand in hand with these
Her grander sisters—(see, yon unmatchable star
Now decks her dusky forehead into light!);
While man, the fine epitome of all,
Is master made of all, yea, more than all—
Hath given to him a mind that can create
Worlds endless out of this, with leave of choice
Of what or seemeth good or ill to him;
While love, the crowning gift that comes from heav'n,
A ray that streams direct from forth the Godhead,
Lights up an earthborn man into an angel,
Who wings his way to heav'n upon the track;
While for each sorrow, high and strong soe'er,
There lives a stronger good may ride the wave,
Singing the while its triumph to the skies,—
Oh, can we stay to question pain—why art thou?
Nor take at once the way she points to joy!
Beware of doubt, that gloomiest, coldest cloud,
A shroud of death in life for human hearts.
That cloud doth hover near a land where souls,
Once falling, lose the will to soar again;
Where man, a godless, loveless worm, doth cling
To the earth whereon he crawls, to let proud death
Crush him with bony foot into the dust.

VIVIA.
But are there really those who have no God?
All have some faith, some hope, a lingering wish,
Or a bare possible,—that is one step
Out of the nothingness that else were theirs.

SATURUS.
No, there are those who rather would be nothing
Than that another should stand high above them.
He is your atheist, who would make himself
An individual god unto himself—
Will brook no thought of equal with himself;
But, rather than confess a mystery,
Lest it should fix him with an ignorance,
Would coldly stand and watch the birth of worms
Out of the corpses of his wife and children,
Content with this—“You see all elements
Return unto their own.”—Ask thy child's smile—
Thy joy at seeing it—Is't dust? is't worm?
O man, that will not own nor God nor heav'n,
Because thou canst not spare from self a worship!

VIVIA.
And Camus, he the priest of Jupiter,
Once said that Christians all were atheists; sure
He could not think so?

SATURUS.
No; but were all Christians,
What would become of priests? His vaults are fill'd
With golden treasure yielded by his office,
His pride is swell'd by homage paid to it;—
We have no priests, no flamens; all our service
Is freely render'd; neither least nor greatest
Are words amongst us; all are ministers
Unto the good of all. The priest would crush
A power that comes to take away his pow'r—
Camus or Caiaphas, it is the same.
A priest it was who first did point the way
Unto our faith by his unseemly rage.
I never yet did hear a hot abuse
But that some good had been its provocation;
For in itself abuse is so much wrong,
It gives fair aspect to its opposite.
Thus, when I heard the Christian faith beset
With venomous thoughts, and the tongue's sharpest arrows
Levelled the while at acts that spoke to me
Like loving voices, listen'd for, for years,
I turn'd me full to meet it face to face;
And, lo! my soul was stricken with a God!
O, blessed stroke! O lyre, that sounded then
Beneath the Master's hand full harmony!
O love, that shone so bright o'er all the world,
That every man seem'd image of a God!
He dwelleth not in temples made with hands;
The temples of the living Lord are ye;
His kingdom is within you. Thus for me,
From that time forth, did every human form
Stand for a living shrine of Deity.
How dark soe'er, no fire upon the altar,
Still was it man—man capable of God!
Each blacken'd criminal for me became
A hope towards an angel; for I felt
The meanest slave or birth or crime doth own
Is yet a brother unto him was lift,
By promise of the Lord of life and light,
Up to a Paradise from off a Cross!
O grand redemption—true equality—
Beheld in Christian love! Nor least nor greatest;
Master and slave, rich, poor, all come alike,
Blest by redeeming love, into heav'n's kingdom.

VIVIA.
They who would be the greatest are the least;
They who do love the most, they are the best;
But if themselves begin to reckon thus,
While so they reckon, lo! the treasure's gone.

SATURUS.
He who did love the most and was the Best,
When he rebuk'd those who would call him Lord,
Shone out a King in brightness o'er them all,
Rob'd in the majesty of loveliness,
Crown'd with this rich supremacy of love!
His burden that we bear, 'tis Christian love,
No sooner taken up than we are light;
And his the yoke whose pressure is but ease.
With love expands the scope of piety:
While pride doth hold the poor for baser clay,
Religion, weeping fond and thoughtful tears,
Gently dissolves their elements to find
Some vein of native good, by pride unseen,
That shines to prove her God a God in all.
There is no virtue where there is not love:
In those esteem'd the wise, how oft we see
A scorn and bitterness that slacks their wisdom;
They hate the evil more than love the good!
O how refulgent wisdom, love, and pow'r,
Shine forth in Him, our Saviour! Come all ye,
Or kings for greatness, potentates for wisdom,
Lay down your lesser honours at his feet.
And come, ye poets; ye whose winged thoughts
Have borne us oft to empyrean heights,
Where as ye stood, faint rays of purer light
Have shone prophetic of the coming sun;
Ye who were once my worship, bow ye down—
A brighter than Apollo now appears!
Your fabled Castaly no longer charms;
For where the Jordan's hallow'd waters flow,
Remembrance of Christ's image in their breast
Wakes up a sweeter, an immortal song,
The echo of that spirit-voice that broke
Like light upon their wave, when He the Lord
Was crown'd of heav'n as God's beloved Son.
Bow down to him, a mightier one than all,
The immortal Poet of Humanity!
Whose mind, a stylus diamonded with light,
Illumes the while it graves its radiant truths
Upon the fleshly tables of the heart;—
His life a poem, that will yet create
Myriads of poems, deathless souls of men,
Regenerate by his divine example!
Look at those faces that I soon shall meet
In yonder cave of death, all uninstruct
In worldly knowledge, yet His script is there.
O it doth shine for me as though the angel
That watch'd His sleep had been again on earth
To leave a light within the sepulchre!

VIVIA.
Let me go with thee to this Christian service.
You look on me, and speak not. Is it doubt?

SATURUS.
Not of thy truth, not of thy will to be
A servant of the Lord;—nor I nor thou
Can tell what is thy pow'r to aid thy will,
Should the fate fall that ever hangs above us.
Once stepp'd into the assembly of the faith,
Thou'rt pledged unto that Christ who died for thee,
To be the bright exemplar of his truth.
Thou'rt pledg'd to me, (whose only joy in life
Is to win souls to worship him) that thou
Bring not a weakness where we need a strength.
I have known those who promis'd fair as thou
As glories for the faith, to prove its shame;
And those of stronger seeming mould, and us'd
To the commonness of life, as thou art not;—
For fortune hath caress'd thee from thy birth;
The world's opinion suns thee from without;
The fond affections glow for thee within;
The natural ills that in a humbler lot
Are custom, Art for thee hath shielded off,
Pouring the while her treasures at thy feet,
Encircling thee with all her graciousness.
And what art thou thyself, apart from this?
Timidity is native in thy form,
And gentleness that shrinks before a tone
Without like gentleness to mate with it.
I would not have thee venture on a way
Begirt with dangers, and thou knew'st them not;
Fear ne'er won courage yet from ignorance.
Think whither thou wouldst go—from what a home!

VIVIA.
Under the stars, no roof 'twixt me and heav'n,
There—there is now my home! This is a prison,
Where old remembrance like a gaoler sits,
And every voice is like an iron chain,
To bind me into dumbness. And when comes
My father, restless conscience wakens up,
To never cease the while her stinging whisper,
So that I cannot look him in the face
For list'ning unto her. The world I fear not,—
Its thought of me did never have a thought;
Things in themselves for their own sake I seek,
And not regard of others in them, or
I ne'er had follow'd in the Christian track.
You do not know how often I have turn'd
Unto these silent marbles, there to try
And gaze away a weariness of soul,
Forgetting in their graciousness awhile
Others' forgetfulness of what they owe
Unto their nobler natures. Never yet
Found I true dignity in any one
Who let the world's opinion cripple thought,
Sure of revenge upon the outward form,
Whose finer graces only wait on freedom.
The world's opinion! O what were it? What
The entire that wealth could give? I would give all—
How joyfully!—for one approving smile
Like that which once did bless a little child.

SATURUS.
Think of thy child!

VIVIA.
I now could go and fold him to my heart,
Bequeath my love in one long kiss, and then
Lie down on earth, and listen for my death
Quietly as his sleep, ere I could live
To have him question of his mother's eyes,
And they did shame to look on him.

SATURUS.
This shews
Like strength.

VIVIA.
Say it of those poor tears,
That look'd like weakness, while they gush'd to prove
What 'tis to bear at once the dread to grieve,
And the reproach of silence. Let me go
Where I can look—can speak that which I feel.
There will be rest in this self-dedication;
So much of act to pacify the thought.

SATURUS.
And for thy father? Pause ere you make answer.

VIVIA.
No pause!—the answer's in the argument
My soul doth credit, as my sight the sun,—
That he that loveth father more than me,
He is not worthy of me!—I would strive.
Help me! thou canst; 'tis here my weakness lies—
Still nourish'd by fond custom; let me go
Where all will lift me upward into strength.
To-day within the temple have I made—
Calling on God, Christ, Heaven, to witness it,—
A solemn vow to enter it no more!
What day so fit to seek my worship's home?

SATURUS.
That home—think well!—a cavern lone and dim,
With earth above thee for thy chosen heav'n,
Surrounded by the dead,—amongst such living
As have but newly wak'd from deeper death.
If now the while I speak one shadow comes
To dim the perfect brightness of thy wish,
Take counsel of it; it may be the first
Of a dread host of fears may come upon thee.

VIVIA.
What should I fear, while truth doth lead me on,
The vestal of an everlasting lamp?

SATURUS.
Seek we no other guide!

VIVIA.
At twilight, then?

SATURUS.
Be it unto thy wish.
I will wait for thee at the cavern's mouth;
Felicitas will guide thee. Now to rest.

VIVIA.
I rest e'en now—a deeper rest than sleep.
I will release Felicitas, to meet thee
At the entrance; then dismiss her to her couch.

SATURUS.
Farewell! and may Christ's peace remain with thee!

VIVIA.
Did not his blessing when you came to-night
Impart it to me? Let this be my surety.
Farewell!—I never say the word in fear,
As once I did.—Farewell! may Heaven's blessing,
The dearest Christ can give his own, be thine!

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

Night. The street before the mansion of Vivia. Barac crouching beneath the steps of the portico.
BARAC.
“Dog” is their word—they shall not be gainsay'd;
Here watch I like a dog, keen on the scent;
Here will I dog his steps; out, out, 'tis time:
The dog is hungry—hungry for his food;—
A double ration, blood and gold. Hark! voices;—
And now the bolts!—they come!

[Saturus comes out, Felicitas following.
FELICITAS.
Good sir, yet tell me, should we take our way
Along the shore?

SATURUS.
'Twere rougher footing: so
You 'scape the watch, the city-way were best.

FELICITAS.
No fear, were there a dragon in the streets;
I would my mistress were as brave as I.
Once pass the market-place, and we are safe;
The eastern cave's beyond their boundary.

SATURUS.
I'll meet thee there. Farewell! and Christ be with thee!

[Exit Saturus.
FELICITAS.
Amen!

BARAC.
A curse!

FELICITAS.
Whence came it?—like a hiss—
A serpent's hiss—and close against mine ears.
Well, we have charms against all serpents now.

[Enters within.
BARAC.
'Twere well if thou could'st charm me from those ears
Whither I make my way.

[Exit.