We, of Armenia, mock thy dreams to scorn,
For they are born of night, as truth of morn;
While Romans hold that dreams are heaven-sent,
And spring from Jove for man's admonishment.

PAUL.
Though this thy faith--if thou my dream shouldst hear--
My grief must needs be thine, thy fear my fear,
And, that the horror thou may'st fully prove,
Know that I--his dear wife--did once another love!
Nay, start not, shrink not, 'tis no tale of shame,
For though in other years the heavenly flame
Descended, kindled, scorched--it left me pure
With courage to resign--with strength to endure.
He touched my heart, but never stained the soul
That gained this hardest conquest--self-control.
At Rome--where I was born--a soldier's eye
Marked this poor face, from which must Polyeucte fly;
Severus was his name:--Ah! memory
May spare love linked with death a tear, a sigh!

STRAT.
Say, is it he who, at the risk of life,
Saved Decius from his foes and endless strife?
Who, dying, dealt to Persia stroke of death,
And shouted 'Victory!' with his latest breath?
His whitening bones, amid the nameless brave,
Lie still unfound, unknown, without a grave;
Unburied lies his dust amid the slain,
While Decius rears an empty urn in vain!