And less of martial ardour were becoming
Cor. Come, lead me, father, to the holy fount, If I in humble penitence may be From worldly vileness clear'd.
Fath. I gladly will, my son. The spirit of grace Is dealing with thy spirit: be received,
A ransom'd penitent, to the high fellowship
Of all the good and bless'd in earth and heaven!
Enter a CONVERT.
Whence comest thou, Fearon? Why wert thou prevented
From joining in our last respectful homage
In those, whose humble Lord stretch'd forth his To those, who have so nobly for the truth
His saving hand, to e'en the meanest slave
Who bends beneath an earthly master's rod,
This faith is meet for all of human kind.
Cor. Forgive him, father: see, he stands reproved;
His heart is meek, though ardent;
It is, indeed, a faith for all mankind.
Fath. We feel it such, my son, press'd as we are; On every side beset with threatening terrors. Look on these ghastly walls, these shapeless pillars, These heaps of human bones,-this court of death; E'en here, as in a temple, we adore
The Lord of life, and sing our song of hope, That death has lost his sting, the grave his triumph. Cor. O make me then the partner of your hopes! (Taking the hand of Sylvius, and then of several other Christians.)
Brave men! high destined souls! immortal beings!
The blessed faith and sense of what we are
Comes on my heart, like streams of beamy light
Pour'd from some opening cloud. O to conceive
What lies beyond the dim, dividing veil,
Of regions bright, of blest and glorious being!
Fath. Ay, when it is withdrawn, we shall behold
What heart hath ne'er conceived, nor tongue could
Cor. When but a boy, I've gazed upon the sky, With all its sparks of light, as a grand cope For the benighted world. But now my fancy Will greet each twinkling star, as the bright lamp Of some fair angel on his guardian watch. And think ye not, that from their lofty stations, Our future glorious home, our Father's house, May lie within the vast and boundless ken Of such seraphic powers?
Con. I have been watching near the grated dungeon
Where Ethocles, the Grecian, is immured.
Fath. Thou say'st not so! A heavier loss than
If they have seized on him, the righteous cause
Could not have suffer'd. Art thou sure of it?
We had not heard of his return from Syria.
Con. It is too true: he landed ten days since
On the Brundusian coast, and as he enter'd
The gates of Rome, was seized and dragg'd to
prison.
Fath. And we in utter ignorance of this!
Con. He travell'd late and unaccompanied, So this was done at nightfall and conceal'd. But see his writing, given me by a guard, Who has for pity's sake betray'd his trust: It is address'd to thee. (Giving him a paper.) Fath. (after reading it.) Alas, alas: it is a brief
Of his successful labours in the East;
For with his excellent gifts of eloquence,
Learning, and prudence, he has made more converts
Than all our zealous brotherhood besides.
What can we do? He will be sacrificed :
The church in him must bleed, if God so wills.
It is a dreadful blow.
Cor. (to the Convert.) I pray thee, in what prison is he kept?
Con. In Sylla's tower, that dwelling of despair.
Cor. Guarded by Romans?
Con.
Yes; and strongly guarded.
Cor. Yet, he shall be released.
Fath. (to Cordenius.) Beware, my son, of rash,
imprudent zeal :
Fath. Thy fancy soars on wide and buoyant The truth hath suffer'd much from this; beware;
Speak on, my son, I would not check thy ardour.
Cor. This solid earth is press'd beneath our feet,
But as a step from which to take our flight;
What boots it then, if rough or smooth it be,
Serving its end?-Come, noble Sylvius !
We've been companions in the broil of battle,
Now be we fellow soldiers in that warfare
Which best becomes the brave.
Syl. Cordenius Maro, we shall be companions When this wide earth with all its fields of blood, Where war hath raged, and all its towers of
Which have begirded been with iron hosts, Are shrunk to nothing, and the flaming sun Is in his course extinguish'd.
Risk not thyself: thy life is also precious.
Cor. My whole of life is precious; but this shred,
This earthly portion of it, what is that,
But as it is employ'd in holy acts?
Am I Christ's soldier at a poorer rate
Than I have served an earthly master? No;
I feel within my glowing breast a power
Which says I am commission'd for this service.
Give me thy blessing-thy baptismal blessing,
And then God's spirit guide me! Serving God,
I will not count the cost but to discharge it.
Fath. His will direct thee then, my generous
His blessing be upon thee !-Lead him, Sylvius,
To the blest fount, where from his former sins
He shall by heavenly grace be purified. [EXEUNT.
SCENE II. THE GARDEN OF SULPICIUS.
Enter SULPICIUS, and PORTIA, with flowers in her hand.
Por. Was it not well to rise with early morn
And pay my homage to sweet Flora? Never
Were flowers by midday cull'd so fair, so fragrant,
With blending streaky tints, so fresh and bright.
See; twinkling dew-drops lurk in every bell,
And on the fibred leaves stray far apart,
Like little rounded gems of silver sheen,
Whilst curling tendrils grasp with vigorous hold
The stem that bears them! All looks young and
fresh.
The very spider through his circled cage
Of wiry woof, amongst the buds suspended,
Scarce seems a loathly thing, but like the small
Imprison'd bird of some capricious nymph.
Is it not so, my father?
Sul. Yes, morn and youth and freshness sweetly
join,
And are the emblems of dear changeful days.
By night those beauteous things-
Por.
And what of night?
Why do you check your words? You are not sad?
Sul. No; Portia, only angry with myself
For crossing thy gay stream of youthful thoughts
With those of sullen age. Away with them!
What if those bright-leaved flowers, so soft and
silken,
Are gathered into dank and wrinkled folds
When evening chills them, or upon the earth
With broken stems and buds torn and dispersed,
Lie prostrate, of fair form and fragrance reft
When midnight winds pass o'er them; be it so!
All things but have their term.
In truth, my child, I'm glad that I indulged thee
By coming forth at such an early hour
To pay thy worship to so sweet a goddess,
Upon her yearly feast.
Por. I thank you, father! On her feast, 'tis said, That she, from mortal eye conceal'd, vouchsafes Her presence in such sweet and flowery spots: And where due offerings on her shrine are laid, Blesses all seeds and shoots, and things of promise. Sul. How many places in one little day
She needs must visit then!
Por. But she moves swift as thought. The hasty
That stirr❜d each slender leaf, now as we enter'd, And made a sudden sound, by stillness follow'd, Might be the rustling of her passing robe.
Sul. A pleasing fancy, Portia, for the moment, Yet wild as pleasing.
Wherefore call it wild? Full many a time I've listen'd when alone In such fair spots as this, and thought I heard Sweet mingled voices uttering varied tones of question and reply, pass on the wind, And heard soft steps upon the ground; and then The notion of bright Venus or Diana, Or goddess nymphs, would come so vividly Into my mind, that I am almost certain Their radiant forms were near me, though conceal'd By subtle drapery of the ambient air.
And O, how I have long'd to look upon them;
An ardent, strange desire, though mix'd with fear.
Nay, do not smile, my father: such fair sights
Were seen-were often seen in ancient days;
The poets tell us so.
But look, the Indian roses I have foster'd
Are in full bloom; and I must gather them!
[Exir eagerly.
Sul. (alone.) Go, gentle creature, thou art care-
less yet:
Ah! could'st thou so remain, and still with me
Be as in years gone by !-It may not be;
Nor should I wish it: all things have their season:
She may not now remain an old man's treasure.
With all her woman's beauty grown to blossom.
The Parthian prince at such an early hour?
Orc. And who considers hours, whose heart is bent
On what concerns a lover and a friend?
Where is thy daughter?
Sul. Within yon flowery thicket, blithe and careless;
For though she loves, 'tis with sweet, maiden fancy,
Which, not impatient, looks in cheering hope
To future years.
Orc.
Ay, 'tis a shelter'd passion,
A cradled love, by admiration foster'd:
A showy, toward nurse for babe so bashful.
Thus in the shell athwart whose snowy lining
Each changeful tint of the bright rainbow plays,
A little pearl is found, in secret value
Surpassing all the rest.
But say'st thou nothing What of Cordenius ?
Orc. By my good war-bow and its barbed shafts, By the best war-horse archer e'er bestrode ! I'm still in ignorance: I have not seen him. Sul. Thou hast not seen him! this is very strange.
Orc. So it indeed appears.-My wayward friend Has from his home been absent. Yesterday There and elsewhere I sought, but found him not. This morning by the dawn again I sought him, Thinking to find him surely, and alone; But his domestics, much amazed, have told me He is not yet return'd.
Sul. Hush! through yon thicket I perceive a
Orc. Some thief or spy. Sul. Let us withdraw a while, And mark his motions; he observes us not.
Enter CORDENIUS from a thicket in the back ground. Cor. (after looking round him with delight.) Sweet light of day, fair sky, and verdant earth,
Enrich'd with every beauteous herb and flower, And stately trees, that spread their boughs like
For shade and shelter, how I hail ye now!
Ye are his works, who made such fair abodes
For happy innocence, yet, in the wreck
Of foul perversion, has not cast us off.
(Stooping to look at the flowers.) Ye little painted things, whose varied hues
Charm, even to wonderment; that mighty hand
Which dies the mountain's peak with rosy tints
Sent from the rising sun, and to the barb'd,
Destructive lightning gives its ruddy gleam,
Grand and terrific, thus adorns even you!
There is a father's full, unstinted love
Display'd o'er all, and thus on all I gaze
With the keen thrill of new-waked ecstasy.
What voice is that so near me and so sweet?
(Portia without, singing some notes of prelude,
and then a Song.)
The lady in her early bower
Is blest as bee in morning flower;
The lady's eye is flashing bright,
Like water in the morning light;
The lady's song is sweet and loud,
Like skylark o'er the morning cloud;
The lady's smiles are smiles that pass
Like morning's breath o'er wavy grass.
She thinks of one, whose harness'd car
In triumph comes from distant war;
She thinks of one, whose martial state
Will darken Rome's imperial gate;
She thinks of one, with laurel crown'd,
Who shall with sweeter wreaths be bound.
Voice, eye, and smiles, in mingled play,
The lady's happy thoughts betray.
Cor. Her voice indeed, and this my favourite song!
It is that gentle creature, my sweet Portia.
I call her mine, because she is the image
Which hath possess'd my fancy. Such vain
Must now give place. I will not linger here.
This is the garden of Sulpicius;
How have I miss'd my path? She sings again.
(Sings without, as before.)
She wanders fitfully from lay to lay,
But all of them some air that I have praised
In happy hours gone by.
The kind heart speaks with words so kindly sweet, That kindred hearts the catching tones repeat; And love, therewith his soft sigh gently blending, Makes pleasing harmony. Thus softly sending Its passing cheer across the stilly main, Whilst in the sounding water dips the oar, And glad response bursts from the nearing shore, Comes to our ears the home-bound seamen's strain, Who from the lofty deck, hail their own land again. Cor. O gentle, sweet, and cheerful! form'd to be Whate'er my heart could prize of treasured love! Dear as thou art, I will not linger here.
Re-enter SULPICIUS and ORCERES, breaking out upon him, and ORCERES catching hold of his robe as he is going off.
Orc. Ha! noble Maro, to a coward turn'd, Shunning a spot of danger!
The fellest foe thou shalt contend with here,
Is her thou call'st so gentle. As for me,
I do not offer thee this hand more freely
Than I will grant all that may make thee happy,
If Portia has that power.
Cor. And dost thou mean, in very earnest mean,
Had not the execution of those Christians-
(Pests of the earth, whom on one burning pile,
With all their kind, I would most gladly punish,)
Till now prevented me. Thy friend, Orceres-
Thou owest him thanks-plead for thee powerfully,
And had my leave. But dost thou listen to me?
Thy face wears many colours, and big drops
Burst from thy brow, whilst thy contracted lips
Quiver, like one in pain.
Orc. What sudden illness racks thee?
Cor. I may not tell you now: let me depart.
Sul. (holding him.) Thou art my promised son;
I have a right
To know whate'er concerns thee,-pain or pleasure.
Cor. And so thou hast, and I may not deceive
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If he, with hand press'd on his breast, will say,
That he detests those hateful Nazarenes.
Cor. No; though my life, and what is dearer far
My Portia's love, depended on the words,
I would not, and I durst not utter them.
Sul. I see it well: thou art insnared and blinded
By their enchantments. Demoniac power
Will drag thee to thy ruin. Cast it off;
Defy it. Say thou wilt forbear all intercourse
With this detested sect. Art thou a madman?
Cor. If I am mad, that which possesses me
Outvalues all philosophers e'er taught,
Or poets e'er imagined.-Listen to me.
Call ye these Christians vile, because they suffer
All nature shrinks from, rather than deny
What seems to them the truth? Call ye them sor-
Because their words impart such high conceptions
Of power creative and parental love,
In one great Being join'd, as makes the heart
Bound with ennobling thoughts? Call ye them
Who daily live in steady strong assurance
Of endless blessedness? O, listen to me!
Re-enter PORTIA, bursting from a thicket close to them.
Por. O, listen to him, father!
Sul. I will not betray him.
Por. Then all may yet be well; for our great
gods,
Whom Cæsar and his subject nations worship,
Will not abandon Rome's best, bravest soldier
To power demoniac. That can never be
If they indeed regard us.
Orc. Were he in Parthia, our great god, the sun,
Or rather he who in that star resides,
Would not permit his power to be so thwarted,
Sul. Let go my robe, fond creature! Listen to For all the demonry that e'er exerted
The song of syrens were less fatal. Charms
Of dire delusion, luring on to ruin,
Are mingled with the words that speak their faith;
They, who once hear them, flutter round destruction
With giddy fascination, like the moth,
Which, shorn of half its form, all scorch'd and
shrivell❜d,
Still to the torch returns. I will not listen;
No, Portia, nor shalt thou.
For if you listen to him, you may save him,
And win him from his errors.
Its baleful influence on wretched men.
Beshrew me for a thought gleams through my
brain,
It is this God, perhaps, with some new name,
Which these bewilder'd Nazarenes adore.
Sul. With impious rites, most strange and horri-
ble.
Orc. If he, my friend, in impious rites hath join'd,
Demons, indeed, have o'er the soul of man
A power to change its nature. Ay, Sulpicius;
And thou and I may, ere a day shall pass,
Be very Nazarenes. We are in ignorance;
We shoot our arrow in the dark, and cry,
Sul. Vain hope! vain hope! What is man'sIt is to wound a foe.' Come, gentle Portia ;
Opposed to demon subtlety? Cordenius!
Cordenius Maro! I adjure thee, go!
Be not so sad; the man thou lovest is virtuous,
And brave, and loves thee well; why then despair?
Por. Alas! I know he is brave and virtuous,
Leave me; why wouldst thou pull destruction on Therefore, I do despair.
On one who loved thee so, that though possess'd
Of but one precious pearl, most dearly prized,
Prized more than life, yet would have given it to
thee.
I needs must weep: e'en for thyself I weep.
Cor. Weep not, my kind Sulpicius! I will leave
thee,
Albeit the pearl thou wouldst bestow upon me
Is, in my estimation, dearer far
Than life, or power, or fame, or earthly thing.
When these fierce times are past, thou wilt, per-
haps,
Think of me with regard, but not with pity,
How fell soe'er my earthly end hath been,
For I shall then be blest. And thou, dear Portia,
Wilt thou remember me? That thought, alas!
Dissolves my soul in weakness.-
O, to be spared, if it were possible,
This stroke of agony. Is it not possible,
That I might yet-Almighty God forgive me!
Weak thoughts will lurk in the devoted heart,
But not be cherish'd there. I may not offer
Aught short of all to thee.
Farewell, farewell! sweet Portia, fare thee well!
(Orceres catches hold of him to prevent his going.)
Retain me not: I am a Parthian now,
My strength is in retreat.
Por. That noble mind! and must it then be
O save him, save him, father! Brave Orceres,
Wilt thou not save thy friend, the noble Maro?
Orc. We will, sweet maid, if it be possible.
We'll keep his faith a secret in our breasts;
And he may yet, if not by circumstances
Provoked to speak, conceal it from the world.
Por. And you, my father?
Orc.
In Nero's court, indeed,
Such men are ever on the brink of danger,
But wouldst thou have him other than he is?
Por. O no! I would not; that were base and
Yet shed I tears, e'en like a wayward child
Who weeps for that which cannot be attain'd,--
Virtue, and constancy, and safety join'd.
I pray thee pardon me, for I am wretched,
And that doth make me foolish and perverse.
[EXEUNT.
SCENE I. BEFORE THE GATE OF NERO'S PALACE:
GUARDS WITH THEIR OFFICERS, DISCOVERED ON
DUTY.
Enter to them another OFFICER, speaking as he enters to
the SOLDIERS.
First Offi. Strike up some sacred strain of Roman
triumph;
The Pontiff comes to meet the summon'd council.
Omit not this respect, else he will deem
We are of those who love the Nazarenes.
Sing loud and clearly.
SACRED HYMN BY THE SOLDIERS,
That chief, who bends to Jove the suppliant knee,
Shall firm in power and high in honour be;
And who to Mars a soldier's homage yields,
Shall laurell'd glory reap in bloody fields;
Who vine-crown'd Bacchus, bounteous lord, adores,
Shall gather still, unscath'd, his vintage stores;
Who to fair Venus liberal offering gives,
Enrich'd with love, and sweet affection lives.
Then, be your praises still our sacred theme,
O Venus, Bacchus, Mars, and Jove supreme!
Pon. I thank ye, soldiers! Rome, indeed, hath
triumph'd,
Bless'd in the high protection of her gods,
The sovereign warrior nation of the world;
And, favour'd by great Jove and mighty Mars,
So may she triumph still, nor meanly stoop
To worship strange and meaner deities,
Adverse to warlike glory. [EXIT, with his train.
First Offi. The Pontiff seems disturb'd, his brow
Enter ORCERES, followed by SULPICIUS.
The Parthian prince, who will inform us truly.
Orceres, is thy friend Cordenius coming?
I have commanded him, and at this hour,
To bring his guarded prisoner to the palace,
Here to remain till the appointed time.
Orc. I know not; nor have I beheld Cordenius
Since yesterday; when, at an early hour,
Sulpicius and myself met him by chance:
Second Offi. Reproof and caution, mingled with But for the prisoner, he is at hand,
E'en at the palace gate; for as we enter'd
We saw him there, well circled round with guards,
Though in the martial throng we saw not Maro.
Nero. (To the Pontiff.) Said I not so?
(To an Officer.) Command them instantly
To bring this wordy Grecian to our presence.
Third Offi. Ay, ay! the sacred chickens are in Sulpicius, thou hast known this Ethocles,
Second Offi. Sylvius is suspected, as I hear. First Offi. Hush! let us to our duty; it is time To change the inner guard.
[EXEUNT with music, into the gate of the palace.
SCENE II-A COUNCIL CHAMBER IN THE PALACE,
NERO WITH HIS COUNSELLORS DISCOVERED; NERO
Nero. Yes, Servius; formerly we have admitted,
As minor powers, amongst the ancient gods
Of high imperial Rome, the foreign deities
Of friendly nations; but these Nazarenes
Scorn such association, proudly claiming
For that which is the object of their faith,
Sole, undivided homage: and our altars,
Our stately temples, the majestic forms
Of Mars, Apollo, thundering Jove himself,
By sculptor's art divine, so nobly wrought,
Are held by these mad zealots in contempt.
Examine, sayest thou! shall imperial Cæsar
Deign to examine what withstands his power?
I marvel at thy folly, Servius Sillus.
Offi. The Pontiff, mighty Cæsar, waits without, And craves admittance.
Nero. Let him be admitted.
Pontiff, thy visage, if I read it well,
Says, that some weighty matter brings thee here:
Thou hast our leave to speak.
Pon. Imperial Nero, didst thou not condemn
That eloquent, but pestilential Nazarene,
The Grecian Ethocles, whose specious words
Wrap in delusion all who listen to him,
Spreading his baleful errors o'er the world?
Nero. Did I condemn him! E'en this very day,
He in the amphitheatre meets his doom;
Having, I trust, no power of words to charm
The enchafed lion, or the famish'd wolf.
Pon. I am inform'd, and I believe it true
That this bold malefactor is enlarged.
Nero. It is impossible! Cordenius Maro
Is sworn to guard the prisoner; or, failing,
(How could he fail?) to pay with his own life
The forfeit. But behold his favourite friend,
Is he a madman or ambitious knave,
Who sought on human folly to erect
A kind of fancied greatness for himself?
Sul. I know not which, great Nero.
Nero. And didst thou not advise me earnestly
To rid the state of such a pestilence?
Sul. And still advise thee, Nero; for this Greek
Is dangerous above all, who, with their lives,
Have yet paid forfeit for their strange belief.
They come the prisoner in foreign garb
So closely wrapp'd, I scarcely see his face.
Enter PRISONER, attended.
Pon. If it in truth be he.
Nero. (To the Pontiff.) Dost thou still doubt ? (To the Prisoner.) Stand forth, audacious rebel, to my will!
Dost thou still brave it, false and subtle spirit?
Cor. (throwing off his Grecian cloak, and
advancing to Nero.) I am not false, Au-
gustus, but if subtle,
Add to my punishment what shall be deem'd
Meet retribution. I have truly sworn,
Or to produce thy thrall, or, therein failing,
To give my life for his; and here I stand.
Ethocles, by a higher power than thine,
Is yet reserved for great and blessed ends.
Take thou the forfeit; I have kept my oath.
Nero. I am amazed beyond the power of utter-
Grows it to such a pitch that Rome's brave captains
Are by this wizard sorcery so charm'd ?
Then it is time, good sooth! that sweeping ven
Should rid the earth of every tainted thing
Which that curst sect hath touch'd. Cordenius
Thou who hast fought our battles, graced our state,
And borne a noble Roman's honour'd name,
What, O what power could tempt thee to this
shame ?
Cor. I have been tempted by that mighty Power,
Who gave to Rome her greatness, to the earth
Form and existence; yea, and to the soul
Of living, active man, sense and perception:
But not to shame, O Cæsar! not to shame!
Nero. What, hast thou not become a Nazarene,
|