LLEWELLYN.
Father, this is not well to mock me so;
My heart is sated with the draught of Hope,
And, loathing, turns from the delusive cup;
Nay! touch him not—'tis well that he should lie,
Calm and unquestion'd, on the breast of Heav'n;
Yet once again my lips must flutter his,
He may not be so distant, but that Love
May send its greeting flying on his track—
The lips are warm—my God! he lives! he lives!
[Takes the child, who awakes in his arms.]