ROL.—Dost thou love thy children and thy wife?
SEN.—Do I love them! God knows my heart—I do.
ROL.—Soldier! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this strange land. What would be thy last request?
SEN.—That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife and children.
ROL.—Oh! but if that comrade was at thy prison gate, and should there be told—thy fellow-soldier dies at sunset, yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children or his wretched wife, what would'st thou think of him, who thus could drive thy comrade from the door?
SEN.—How?
ROL.—Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come but to receive for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my friend.
SEN.—Go in. [Shoulders his spear and walks to L. U. E.
ROL. (c.)—Oh, holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not of our earth a creature bearing form, and life—human or savage—native of the forest wild, or giddy air—around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne, the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently.—Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate! Alonzo! Alonzo, my friend! Ha! in gentle sleep! Alonzo—rise!
ALON.—How, is my hour elapsed? Well, (Returning from the recess R.
U. E.) I am ready.