She has my soul, Nearchus, fast in thrall;
Who holds the marriage torch--august, divine,
Bids me to her sweet voice my will resign.
She fears my death--tho' baseless this her fright,
Pauline is wrung with fear--by day--by night;
My road to duty hampered by her fears,
How can I go when all undried her tears?
Her terror I disown--and all alarms,
Yet pity holds me in her loving arms:
No bolts or bars imprison,--yet her sighs
My fetters are--my conquerors, her eyes!
Say, kind Nearchus, is the cause you press
Such as to make me deaf to her distress?
The bonds I slacken I would not unloose
Nothing I yield--yet grant a timely truce.

NEAR.
How grant you know not what? Are you assured
Of constancy?--as one who has endured?
God claims your soul for Him!--Now! Now! To-day!
The fruit to-morrow yields--oh, who shall say?
Our God is just, but do His grace and power
Descend on recreants with equal shower?
On darkened souls His flame of light He turns,
Yet flame neglected soon but faintly burns,
And dying embers fade to ashes cold
If we the heart His spirit wooes withhold.
Great Heaven retains the fire no longer sought,
While ashes turn to dust, and dust to naught.
His holy baptism He bids thee seek,