Descending deities? My fierce remorse,
The unutterable anguish of my soul
Demands relief! Rid me of those pale forms,
That, mid the blaze of day, the gloom of night,
Are fixed forever on my burning eyes,
Sleeping or waking—I can bear no more!
Send Rome's proud Emperor forth to deserts wild;
Bid him resign his regal diadem—
Relinquishing the mistress of the world,
To roam a beggar through his own wide realm.
Stand not so mute; your silent cold regards,
Mocking my passionate grief, will make me mad!
Pour curses on me; bid me strain each nerve
To the endurance of strange torture, keen,
Keen as my agony of mind; but say
There is a hope, a chance, that suffering
May pave the way to mercy.
High Priest.
Constantine!
Be not deceived, the gods have fixed thy doom;
Nor prayer nor penance can avail. Depart,
