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 E'en as a son. I will not trust him now; He must have chang'd; for are not all men chang'd? He should be like the rest!—Good Father, say May one, a stranger in his native land, Explore these scenes of beauty?

Fran.—Ask not him, Who, in the fulness of his years, goes forth An outcast from their shades.

Seb.—What! art thou not The friend, th' instructor of Sebastian's youth, Who first didst pour upon his soul the light Of lofty thought, and unto whom he bade These groves and bowers a calm asylum yield Till his return?

Fran.—Alas! how few the hearts Still true to him who never will return! No voice of power ariseth from the dust, Where monarchs sleep forgotten. It is e'en As thou hast said, and therefore I depart With my white hairs, to exile, and to seek A grave on other shores.

Seb.—This shall not be!

Fran. Stranger, it must be. 'Tis their will, who rule A weary and a wasted land, which asks But rest, if e'en in death. A land, whose heart, Once brave and free, is broken!

Seb.—Think'st thou then A nation's spirit, nurtur'd into power By the majestic, deep remembrances Of elder time, can die?—Oh, feeble thought! Sebastian yet may come, and thou shalt see The wakening of a people!

Fran.—I have watch'd For his return, until, with hope deferred, My heart hath sicken'd. It is past. And now— Oh! better far that with his kingly sires He slumber'd, or that on his lonely grave The desart-serpent bask'd in Afric's noon, Than that he came to look on faithless friends, And kingdoms lost for ever!—No! my trust, Now that the days of evil are upon us, Is, that he perish'd in the battle-hour, Bearing his nature's tameless royalty About him, to the last!

Seb.–So bright a fate Was not for him.

Fran.—What know'st thou of his lot? There is a cadence in thy voice, which thrills My spirit as some well-remember'd strain