To you, to all.
A tax is laid upon my very heart
To sing the sweeping music of the Rhone,
That rushes through my ears, that chants of her,
Of all you have delivered. In its depths
You will be buried, but the very burthen
You die to utter, far away in France
Will be caught up; Love will be free, and life
Free to make change as childhood.
Someone comes—
Hush, very softly, do not be afraid.
[Boniface enters and steals up to Carloman.]
BONIFACE.
Beloved—
CARLOMAN.
[putting his hand on the lips of Boniface]
No more! Dear voice, end with that word:
Beloved is not a prelude, it is all
A dying man can bear.
BONIFACE.
[blessing him] All that I go
To publish to the folk in heathen lands.
Tho’ very often it means martyrdom
To listen to my story, I am blest
Proclaiming it.