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Of these pale tenants of the tomb! Away
Distracting vision! Oh! ye sacred band
Who, morn and eve, perform the holy rites
Before great Jove's high altar, give me hope,
Speak words of comfort to my troubled soul,
To my sad spirit, peace.
High Priest.
Constantine.
To endless punishment in other worlds,
And agony in this; to keen remorse,
The deadly pang that poisons every joy.
Amid the acclamations, 'mid the shouts
Of the thronged multitude from east to west,
The countless hosts of Rome's wide empire, groans
Burst on my startled ear! Faustina's groans,
The dying cry of Crispus! At the feast
When the brimmed goblet sparkles, and each hand
Pours a libation to the gods, the wine
