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Above what once thou wast, some few do rise;

None above what thou art.

. It shall be so.

. It is so.

. Then to prove it.

For I must yet a trial undergo,

That will require a consciousness of virtue.

. O, what a temper doth in man reside!

How capable of yet unthought perfection!

(Exit.) >

. Ask her, my friend, to send by thee her pacquets.

O, what keen struggles must I undergo!

Unbless'd estate! to have the power to pardon;

The court's stern sentence to remit;—give life;—

Feel the strong wish to use such blessed power;

Yet know that circumstances strong as fate

Forbid to obey the impulse. O, I feel

That man should never shed the blood of man!

. Naught can the lovely suitor satisfy,

But conference with thee, and much I fear

Refusal would cause madness.

. Yet to admit,

To hear, be tortur'd, and refuse at last—

. Sure never man such spectacle of sorrow

Saw before. Motionless the rough-hewn soldiers

Silent view her, or walk aside and weep.

. (After a pause.) Admit her.

( goes out.) O, for the art, the precious art,

To reconcile the sufferer to his sorrows!

( rushes in, and throws herself wildly on her knees before him; he endeavors to raise her.)

. Nay, nay, here is my place, or here, or lower,

Unless thou grant'st his life. All forms away!

Thus will I clasp thy knees, thus cling to thee—

I am his wife—'t is I have ruin'd him—

O, save him! Give him to me! Let us cross

The mighty seas, far, far—ne'er to offend again—

(The turns away, and hides his eyes with his hand.)

. Seward, support her; my heart is torn in twain.

(, as if exhausted, suffers herself to be raised, and leans on .)

. This moment, sir, a messenger arrived

With well confirm'd and mournful information,

That gallant Hastings, by the lawless scouts

Of Britain taken, after cruel mockery

With show of trial and of condemnation,

On the next tree was hung.

. (Wildly.) O, it is false.

. Why, why, my country, did I hesitate?

( sinks, faints, and is borne off by and .)

. How speeds Honora? (Pause.) Art thou silent, Bland?

Why, then, I know my task. The mind of man,

If not by vice debas'd, debilitated,

Or by disease of body quite unton'd,

Hath o'er its thoughts a power—energy divine.

Of fortitude the source and every virtue—

A godlike power, which e'en o'er circumstance

Its sov'reignty exerts. Now from my thoughts,

Honora! Yet she is left alone—expos'd—

. O, André, spurn me, strike me to the earth;

For what a wretch am I in André's mind.

That he can think he leaves his love alone,

And I retaining life!

. Forgive me. Bland.