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It doth! it doth! there's form and motion in it. Advance, thou awful shade, whate'er thou art. Those threat'ning gestures say thou art not Juen. (Rubbing his eyes.) It was but fancy.—No; the soul to Him Who is the Soul of souls ascended hath, Dust to its dust return'd. There is nought here But silent rest that can be roused no more. Beneath this mould, some few spans deep he lies. So near me, though conceal'd!—Cursed as I am, The cords of love ev'n through this earth have power, Like a strong charm, to draw me to him still. (Casting himself upon the grave.) Burst, guilty heart! rend every nerve of life, And be resolved to senseless clay like this, So to enlap his dearer clay for ever.

He is not here: nought see I through the gloom Save the cold marble of those tombs which, touch'd With the wan light of yon sepulchral lamp, Show their scroll'd ends to the uncertain sight, Like shrouded bodies rising from the earth. (Going towards the grave.) Ha! something stirring on the new-raised earth! It is Henriquez, wrapped in frantic sorrow. (Advancing to him.)