Act the First: Scene VII

JUSTINA. Consolation, sir, is vain,After what I've seen to-day:The whole city, madly gay,Error-blinded and insane,Consecrating shrine and faneTo an image, which I know,Cannot be a god, althoughSome demoniac power may pass,Making breathe the silent brassAs a proof that it is so.

LYSANDER. Fair Justina, thou indeed,Wert not who thou art, if thouDidst not weep as thou dost now,Didst not in thy pure heart bleedFor what Christ's divinest creedSuffers on this sinful day.

JUSTINA. Thus my lineage I display:--For thy child I could not be,Could I without weeping seeThis idolatrous display.

LYSANDER. Ah, my good, my gentle maid!Thou art not my daughter, no,'Twere too happy, if 'twere so.But, O God! what's this I've said?--My life's secret is betrayed!'Twas my soul that spoke aloud.

JUSTINA. What do you say, sir?

LYSANDER. Oh! a crowdOf old thoughts my heart hath stirred.

JUSTINA. Many times methought I heardWhat but now you have avowed,And yet never wished to hear,At the risk perchance of paining,A more accurate explainingOf your sorrow and my fear;But since now it doth appearRight that I should be possess'dOf the whole truth half confess'd,Let me say, though bold appearing,--Trust your secret to my hearing,Since it hath escaped your breast.

LYSANDER. Ah! Justina, I have longKept this secret from your ears,Fearing from your tender yearsThat the telling might be wrong;But now seeing you are strong,Firm in thought, in action brave,Seeing too, that with this stave,I go creeping o'er the ground,Rapping with a hollow soundAt the portals of the grave,Knowing that my time is brief,I would not here leave you, no,In your ignorance; I oweMy own peace, too, this relief:Then attentive to my griefLet your pleasure list.

JUSTINA. A fearStruggles in my breast.

LYSANDER. SevereIs the test my duty pays.

JUSTINA. From this most perplexing mazeOh, sir, rescue me.

LYSANDER. Then hear.I, most beautiful Justina,Am Lysander.... This commencementWith my name need not surprise you;For though known to you already,It is right, for all that follows,That it should be well remembered,Since of me you know no moreThan what this my name presenteth.Yes, I am Lysander, sonOf that city which on SevenHills a hydra seems of stone,Since it seven proud heads erecteth;Of that city now the seatOf the mighty Roman empire,Cradle of Christ's wider realm,--Boon that Rome alone could merit.There of poor and humble parentsI was born, if "poor" expressesWell their rank who left behind themVirtues, not vain earthly treasures.Both of them by birth were Christians,Joyful both to be descendedFrom brave sires who with their bloodHappily life's page had reddened,Terminating the dull scrollWith death's bright emblazoned letters.In the Christian faith well groundedI grew up, and so well learnt it,That I would, in its defence,Even a thousand lives surrender.I was young still, when to Rome,In disguise and ill attended,Came our good Pope Alexander,Who then prudently directedThe high apostolic see,Though its place there was not settled;For, as the despotic powerOf the stern and cruel gentilesSatisfies its thirst with bloodFrom the martyrs' veins that shed it,So must still the primitive churchKeep concealed its sons and servants;Not that they decline to die,Not that martyrdom is dreadedBut that rebel rage should not,At one stroke, one hour of vengeance,Triumph o'er the ruined church,So that no one should be left itWho could preach and teach the word,Who could catechise the gentile.Alexander being in Rome,I was secretly presentedTo him there, and from his handWhich was graciously extended,With his blessing I receivedHoly Orders, which the seraphsWell might envy me, since manOnly such an honour merits.Alexander, as my mission,Unto Antioch then sent me,Where the law of Christ in secretI should preach. With glad contentmentI obeyed, and at their mercy,Through so many nations wending,Came at length to Antioch;And when I, these hills ascending,Saw beneath me in the valleyAll its golden towers and temples,The sun failed me, and down sinkingDrew with him the day, presentingFor my solace a companion,And a substitute for his presenceIn the light of stars, a pledgeThat he'd soon return to bless me.With the sun I lost my way,And then wandering dejectedThrough the windings of the forest,Found me in the dim recessesOf a natural bower, whereinEven the numerous rays that trembledDownward from each living torchCould in noways find an entrance,For to black clouds turned the leavesThat by day were green with freshness.Here arranging to awaitThe new sun's reviving presence,Giving fancy that full scope,That wide range which it possesses,I in solitude indulgedMany and many a deep reflection.Thus absorbed was I in thoughtWhen there came to me the echoOf a sigh half heard, for halfTo its owner retroverted.Then collecting in mine earAll my senses joined together,I again heard more distinctlyThat weak cry, that faint expression,That mute idiom of the sad,Since by it they're comprehended.From a woman came that groanTo whose sigh so low and gentleFollowed a man's deeper voice,Who thus speaking low addressed her:"Thou first stain of noblest bloodBy my hands this moment perish,Ere thou meetest with thy death'Neath the hands of infamous headsmen."--Then the hapless woman saidIn a voice that sobbed and trembled,"Ah, lament for thine own blood,But for me do not lament thee!"--I attempted then to reach them,That the stroke might be prevented,But I could not, since the voicesAt that moment ceased and ended,And a horseman rode away'Mong the tree-trunks undetected.Loadstone of my deep compassionWas that voice which still exertedAll its failing powers to speakAmid groans and tears this sentence,--"Dying innocent and a ChristianI a martyr's death may merit."--Following the polar-starOf the voice, I came directlyWhere the gloom revealed a woman,Though I could not well observe her,Who in life's despairing struggle,Hand to hand with death contended.Scarcely was I heard, when sheSummoning up her strength addressed me,--"Blood-stained murderer mine, come back,Nor in this last hour desert meOf my life."--"I am," said I,"Only one whom chance hath sent here,Guided it may be by heaven,To assist you in this dreadfulHour of trial."--"Vain," she said,"Is the favour that your mercyOffers to my life, for see,Drop by drop the life-stream ebbeth,Let this hapless one enjoy it,Who it seems that heaven intendeth,Being born upon my grave,All my miseries should inherit."--So she died, and then I...