They should rather speak of a long, unbroken, eternal night, but of no good one, of no happy dawn for me....
The Man. Lean on me, George. Let me support you to the bed.
George. What does all this mean, father?
The Man. Cover yourself up, and go quietly to sleep. The doctor says you will regain your sight.
George. I feel so very unwell, father; strange voices roused me from my sleep, and I saw mamma standing in a field of lilies....
He falls asleep.
The Man. Bless thee! bless thee, my poor boy!
I can give thee nothing but a blessing; neither happiness, nor light, nor fame are in my gift. The stormy hour of struggle approaches, when I must combat with the few against the many.
Tortured infant! what is then to become of thee, alone, helpless, blind, surrounded by a thousand dangers? Child, yet Poet, poor Singer without a hearer, with thy soul in heaven, and thy frail, suffering body still fettered to the earth—what is to be thy doom? Alas, miserable infant! thou most unfortunate of all the angels! my son! my son!
He buries his face in his hands.