What a wonder!
Escarpin.
Jove! my own head splits asunder!—
Polemius.
Even though severed, in it dwells
Still the force of magic spells.
Chrysanthus.
Sir, it were a fatal blunder
To be blind to this appalling
Tragedy you wrong by calling
The result of spells—no spells
Are such signs, but miracles
Outside man's experience falling.
He came here because he yearned
With his pure and holy breath
To give life, and so found death.
'T is a lesson that he learned—
'T is a recompense he earned—
Seeing what his Lord could do,
Being to his Master true:
Kill me also: He had one
Bright example: shall I shun
Death in turn when I have two?
Polemius.
I, in listening to thy raving,
Scarce can calm the wrath thou 'rt braving.
Dead ere now thou sure wouldst lie,
Didst thou not desire to die.
Chrysanthus.
Father, if the death I 'm craving . . .
Polemius.
Speak not thus: no son I know.
Chrysanthus.
Not to thee I spoke, for though
Humanly thou hast that name,
Thou hast forfeited thy claim:
I that sweet address now owe
Unto him whose holier aim
Kindled in my heart a flame
Which shall there for ever glow,
Woke within me a new soul
That thou 'rt powerless to control—
Generated a new life
Safe against thy hand or knife:
Him a father's name I give
Who indeed has made me live,
Not to him whose tyrant will
Only has the power to kill.
Therefore on this dear one dead,
On this pallid corse laid low,
Lying bathed in blood and snow,
By this lifeless lodestone led,
I such bitter tears shall shed,
That my grief . . .
Polemius.