Olga
Olga. Yours is a height where flowers perchance bloom not;
But there are grander things, austerer joys.
To hold the lives of millions in your hands,
To choose them out as God does; with a scratch
Of yonder pen-point, doom whome'er you will
To death or dungeon—or exalt to honour—
That's to be like a god.
Czar.Yes, if a god
Could live for ever on the crater's brink,
Expecting the infernal blaze of doom,
The crash, the thunder, and the sea of fire.
But that were naught. Say rather if a god
Knew never friend from foe, distrusted oft
The truest, blindly in the false believed—
What say I? truest? are there any true?
The fond, the innocently smiling eyes
That melt at a hard word to a sad dew
They fain would hide, the lips that shyly kiss,
The rose-blush of the half-averted cheek,
Love's timid murmur—and again the brave,
Blunt speech, too honest for the courtier's trade.—
Do not they both betray? Have I not lost
The common instinct to judge friend from foe?
An angel's voice from heaven that warranted
The faith of nearest and of dearest, still
Would leave me doubting. E'en thyself, sweet mask,
But there are grander things, austerer joys.
To hold the lives of millions in your hands,
To choose them out as God does; with a scratch
Of yonder pen-point, doom whome'er you will
To death or dungeon—or exalt to honour—
That's to be like a god.
Czar.Yes, if a god
Could live for ever on the crater's brink,
Expecting the infernal blaze of doom,
The crash, the thunder, and the sea of fire.
But that were naught. Say rather if a god
Knew never friend from foe, distrusted oft
The truest, blindly in the false believed—
What say I? truest? are there any true?
The fond, the innocently smiling eyes
That melt at a hard word to a sad dew
They fain would hide, the lips that shyly kiss,
The rose-blush of the half-averted cheek,
Love's timid murmur—and again the brave,
Blunt speech, too honest for the courtier's trade.—
Do not they both betray? Have I not lost
The common instinct to judge friend from foe?
An angel's voice from heaven that warranted
The faith of nearest and of dearest, still
Would leave me doubting. E'en thyself, sweet mask,
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