Paul. 
     Alas! the rents in armour donned and proved
     Too well my fight proclaim; yes, I have loved;
     The traitor sigh, the tear unbid, attest
     The combat fierce—­the warrior sore distrest. 
     Say, who can stanch these wounds, that armour mend? 
     Thou who hast pierced, thou, thou alone defend! 
     Ah, if thou honourest my victory
     Depart, that thou may’st still defender be! 
     So dry the tears that, to my shame, still flow—­
     So quench the fire would work my overthrow! 
     Yes, go, my only friend, with me combine
     To end my torture, for thy pain is mine!

     SEV. 
     This last poor drop of comfort may not be?

     Paul. 
     The cup is poisoned both for me and thee!

     SEV. 
     The flower is gone—­I cherish but the root!

     Paul. 
     Untimely blossom bears a fated fruit!

     SEV. 
     My grief be mine!  Let memory remain!

     Paul. 
     That grief might hope beget, so leave a stain!

     SEV. 
     Not mine to stain what Heaven hath made so pure! 
     For me one offering left:  ’tis this:  Endure! 
     Thy glory shall be mine, my load I bear,
     So, spotless, thou thy peerless crown shalt wear! 
     Farewell, my love, farewell; I go to prove my faith,
     To bless, to save thy life, so will I mate with death! 
     If prostrate from the blow, there yet remains of life
     Enough to summon death, and end the piteous strife!

     Paul. 
     My grief, too deep for voice, shall silent be,
     There, in my chamber, will I pray for thee! 
     When thou art gone, great Heaven shall hear my cry;
     Grief’s fruit for thee be hope—­death—­immortality!

     SEV. 
     Now with my loss alone let Fate contented be. 
     May Heaven shower bliss and peace on Polyeucte and thee!

     Paul. 
     Stern Fate obeyed, end, Death, his agony,
     And Jove receive my hero—­to the sky!

     SEV.
     Thou wast my heaven!

     Paul. 
     My father I obeyed—­

     SEV. 
     O victim pure, obedient, undismayed! 
     Pauline—­too fair—­too dear—­I can no more!

     Paul. 
     So must I say—­depart—­where I adore!

     (Exit Severus.)

     STRAT. 
     Yes, it is hard—­most sad—­behold my tears! 
     But now, at least, there is no cause for fears: 
     Thy dream is but a dream—­is naught, is vain;
     Severus pardons.  Gone that cause for pain!

     Paul. 
     Oh, if from pity start thy easy tear,
     Add not that other woe—­forgotten fear! 
     Ah! let me breathe, some respite give from trouble,
     Those fears, half-dead, thou dost revive, redouble!