Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 16.djvu/203

Rh A base impostor: see the glorious privilege Of altars; thanks to their protecting veil, With lips profane thou hast abused the power Given thee by heaven, to arraign thy king; And yet thou thinkest the sacred ministry Thou hast disgraced shall withhold my wrath: Traitor, thou shouldst have perished at the altar Before those gods whose voice thou hast usurped.

My life is in thy hands, and thou art now The master of my fate: seize then the time Whilst yet thou art so, for to-day thy doom Will be pronounced. Tremble, unhappy Prince, Thy reign is past; a hand unseen suspends The fatal sword that glitters o'er thy head: Soon shall thy conscious soul with horror feel The weight of guilt; soon shalt thou quit the throne, Where now thou sittest secure, to wander forth A wretched exile in a distant land; Of wholesome water and of sacred fire Deprived, shalt take thy solitary way, And to the caves and hollow rocks complain. Where'er thou goest, a vengeful God shall still Pursue thy steps; still shalt thou call on death, But call in vain: heaven, that beholds thy fate, Shall hide itself in darkness from thy sight; To guilt and sorrow doomed, thou shall regret Thy life, and wish that thou hadst ne'er been born.

Thus far I have constrained my wrath, and heard thee. Priest, if thy blood were worthy of my sword, Thy life should answer for this insolence: