He paused, for the dews gathered on his forehead; but again the transient light kindled in his face, till it was even as that of an angel. Earthly passion, whether of anger or of sorrow, had faded from that pure white brow; the eyes looked back the heaven on which they gazed—they were full of it.
"Oh, my Creator!" exclaimed he, clasping his thin, wan hands, "I am not worthy of the gifts bestowed upon me! Let me not forget that, though this worn and fevered frame perish, the soul ascends hopeful, meekly hopeful, of its native heaven; and my mind remains behind to influence and to benefit its race: may what was in aught evil of its creations be forgotten; may aught that was good, endure to the end. There is a deep and sacred assurance at my heart, that what I have done will not be quite in vain. Even at this last moment, I feel it is sweet to bequeath my memory to the aspirations and sympathies of my kind."
He leaned back—pale, faint, but calm;
