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Mother! what is this? Alas! your eye is wandering, and your cheek Flush'd, as with fever! To your woes the night Hath brought no rest.

Rest!—who should rest?—not he That holds one earthly blessing to his heart Nearer than life!—No! if this world have aught Of bright or precious, let not him who calls Such things his own, take rest!—Dark spirits keep watch, And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame, Were as heaven's air, the vital element Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their souls Made marks for human scorn!—Will they bear on With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all Its glorious drapery?—Who shall tell us this? —Will he so bear it?

Mother! let us kneel, And blend our hearts in prayer!—What else is left To mortals when the dark hour's might is on them? —Leave us, Theresa.—Grief like this doth find Its balm in solitude.[Exit.