Holy St. David! is this death, or sleep?
LLEWELLYN.
Nay! Father, that is past—I am a man
Once more, and look at Sorrow in the eyes;
Let Truth e'en smite me with her two-edged blade,
But smite me, like a warrior, face to face.
MONK.
I stand all in amaze! or do I dream,
Or see I now the motion of a breath,
Ruffling the pouting lips that stand ajar?
LLEWELLYN.
Oh! Father, mock me not—I know that Death
Sits lightly on him as a dreamless sleep;
So dear a bud can never lose its sweets;
Oh! foolish heart! I thought to see him grow
In strength and beauty, like a sapling oak,
Spreading his stalwart shoots about the sky,
Till, when old age set burdens on my back,
In every bough my trembling hands should find
A staff to prop me onward to the grave;
And now—my heart is shaken somewhat sorely.
MONK.
Sir! This is wondrous—let me take the child,
For sure mine eyes do cheat me, or he lives.