And still, whate'er betide, the light of heaven
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son!
Is thy young spirit master'd, and prepared
For nature's fearful and mysterious change?
Rai. Ay, father! of my brief remaining task
The least part is to die?—And yet the cup
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips,
Crown'd with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name
Is—glory!—Oh! my soul, from boyhood's morn,
Hath nursed such mighty dreams!—It was my hope
To leave a name, whose echo, from the abyss
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds,
Into the far hereafter: there to be
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb,
Murmuring—awake!—Arise!—But this is past!
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame,
To sleep forgotten in the dust—but now
—Oh God!—the undying record of my grave
Will be,—Here sleeps a traitor!—One, whose crime
Was—to deem brave men might find nobler weapons
Than the cold murderer's dagger!
Ans. Oh, my son,
Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will hang
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain'd soul
Doth conjure from the death!
Rai. Thou 'rt right. I would not.
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart,
