Page:Miscellaneous Plays 1.pdf/430

410

Merciful heav'n! do mine eyes serve me truly? Justiniani, with pale haggard face, Retiring from his post! Where are you going, chief? (Stopping him sternly.)

Where nature, urg'd beyond the pith of nature, Compels me. Midst yon streams of liquid fires, And hurling ruins and overwhelming mass Of things unknown, unseen, uncalculable, All arms and occupation of a soldier Are lost and turn'd to naught: man's strength is naught: The fangs of hell are in my new-torn flesh; I must on for a space and breathe fresh air.

Go to! this moment is the quiv'ring ridge That stands between our success or our ruin:— The sight of thy turn'd back from their screw'd pitch Will turn more hearts than all the pressing foe: Thou must not go.

I am a mortal man: The fangs of fiends are in my new torn flesh: Nature compels me, and I must have succour. (Exit hastily, and writhing with pain.)

Alas! God pity him! one luckless moment