115
Indict the emmett for her industry,
Impugn the cricket's gay improvidence,
The fox's craft, the lamb's simplicity,
But leave to man the passion of that pride
Which sets him, sole among Creation's Sons
Feet in the dust, and forehead in the stars
To stand erect, and gaze upon the sky.
(Theonöe stands speaking thro' the grille, her back to the audience.)
Voices Outside:
Curséd be they that worship graven Gods
Who boast themselves in Idols.
Babylas,
Purge them with fire, Blessed Babylas,
Death to the Pagans, burn them out like rats
Which scurried from Serapis' image late
When his great idol to our axes fell.
Ah, soon shall a last supreme burn'd offering
