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Ant. My husband!

Mat. Oh! my father!

Ant. Is it thus That thou return'st? and is this the hour Desir'd so long?

Car. O ye afflicted ones! Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. Long have my thoughts been us'd to look on Death, And calmly wait his time. For you alone My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then, Deprive me of its aid?—When the Most High On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows The courage to sustain them. Oh! let yours Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy In this embrace, 'tis still a gift of Heaven. Thou weep'st, my child! and thou, beloved wife! Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flowed on In peace and gladness; I united thee To my disastrous fate, and now the thought Embitters death. Oh! that I had not seen The woes I cause thee!

Ant. Husband of my youth! Of my bright days, thou who did'st make them bright, Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there, And yet, e'en now—I would not but be thine.

Car. Full well I know how much I lose in thee; Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now.

Mat. The homicides!

Car. No, sweet Matilda, no! Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb These moments—they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs Are deep, but, thou, forgive them, and confess, That, e'en midst all the fulness of our woe. High, holy joy remains—Death! Death!—our foes, Our most relentless foes, can only speed Th' inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not Invented death for man; it would be then Maddening and insupportable;—from Heaven 'Tis sent, and Heaven doth temper all its pangs With such blest comfort, as no mortal power Can give or take away. My wife! my child! Hear my last words—they wring your bosoms now