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Rh

Fear not for me, dear mother! Lean upon me. Nay, let me feel your hand upon my shoulder, And press'd more heavily. It pleases me, Weak as I am, to think I am thy prop.

O what a prop thou would'st have been to me! And what a creature for a loathly grave,— For death to prey upon!—Turn, turn! Oh, turn! Advance no farther on this dreadful path.

I came not here to turn; and for the path, And what it leads to, if you can endure it, Then so can I:—fear not for me, dear mother! Nay, do not fear at all; 't will soon be over.

Oh! my brave heart! my anguish and my pride, Ev'n on the very margin of the grave. Good Sabawatté! hold him; take him from me.

I cannot, madam; and De Creda says, 'T is best that you should yield to his desire.

It is a fearful—an appalling risk.