Relief came but from agony supreme--
I shrieked--I writhed--I woke--it was a dream!
And yet my dream is true!

STRAT.
'Tis true your dream is sad,
But now you are awake, 'tis but a dream you had!
For horror's prey in darkness of the night
Is but our reason's sport in morning light.
How can you dread a shade? How a fond father fear,
Who as a son regards the man you hold so dear?
To phantom of the night no credence yield;
For him and you he chose thy strength and shield.

PAUL.
You say _his_ words: at all my fears he smiles,
But I must dread these Christians and their wiles!
I dread their vengeance, wreaked upon my lord,
For Christian blood my father has outpoured!

STRAT.
Their sect is impious, mad, absurd and vain,
Their rites repulsive, as their cult profane.
Deride their altar, their weak frenzy ban,
Yet do they war with gods and not with man!
Relentless wills our law that they must die:
Their joy--endurance; death--their ecstasy;
Judged--by decree, the foes of human race,
Meekly their heads they bow--to court disgrace!