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[Scene - A Prison in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.] D'AUBIGNE'o an aged Royalist. BLANCHIE, his Daughter, a

young girl.
BLANCHE. What was our doom, my father? In thine

I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence ! — Could our judges look,

Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?
5 Was there not mercy, father ? — Will they not
Hasten us to our home?

D'AUBIGNE'. Yes, my poor child !
They send us home.

BLANCHE. Oh! shall we gaze again
10 On the bright Loire ? — Will the old hamlet-spire,

And the gray turret of our own château,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms ?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,

The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
15 Welcome us back at last? — But how is this?

— Father! thy glance is clouded, — on thy brow
There sits no joy!

D'AUBIGNE'. Upon my brow, dear girl,

There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace 20 As may befit the Christian, who receives

And recognizes, in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.

Thou dost not mean - No, no ! it cannot be !— Didst thou not say 25 They send us home ?

D'AUBIGNE'. Where is the spirit's home? -
Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,
Where should it be, but in that world serene,

Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power?30 Where, but in Heaven.

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BLANCHE.. My father!

We must die !
We must look up to God, and calmly die.

- Come to my heart, and weep there ! — for awhile 5 Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise

In the still courage of a woman's heart !
Do I not know thee? — Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche ?

BLANCHE (falling on his busom.) Oh! clasp me fast i 10 Thy trembling child ! — Hide, hide me in thine arms — Father!

D'AUBIGNE'. Alas! my flower, thou 'rt young to go, Young, and so fair ! - Yet were it worse, methinks,

To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, 15 The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,

And they that loved their God, have all been swept. .
Like the sere leaves, away. -- For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,

No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
20 Rejoicing to depart. — The soil is steeped

In noble blood ; the temples are gone down,
The voice of prayer is hushed, or fearfully
Muttered, like sounds of guilt. — Why, who would live i

25 To quit forever the dishonored soil,

The burdened air ? — Our God upon the cross, —
Our king upon the scaffold, — let us think
Of these, — and fold endurance to our hearts,

And bravely die !
30 BLANCHE. A dark and fearful way!

An evil doom for thy dear honored head !
0! thou, the kind, the gracious ! — whom all eyes
Blessed as they looked upon ! — Speak yet again, -

Say, will they part us?
35 D'AUBIGNE'. No, my Blanche ; in death

We shall not be divided.

BLANCHE. Thanks to God !
He, by thy glance, will aid me; I shall see
His light before me to the last. — And when –

Oh! pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child !
5 When shall the hour befall ?

Oh! swiftly now,
And suddenly, with brief, dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke. — But of that hour

As yet I know not. — Each low throbbing pulse
10 Of the quick pendulum may usher in

Blancie (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again

Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,
15 Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are called.

D'AUBIGNE'. If I may speak through tears !
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,

Child of my heart !- thou who dost look on me 20 With thy lost mother's angel-eyes of love !

Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widowed house,

There springing up, — with soft light round thee shed, 25 For immortality ! - Meek child of God!

I bless thee — He will bless thee ! — In His love
He calls thee now from this rude, stormy world,
To thy Redeemer's breast. — And thou wilt die,

As thou hast lived, — my duteous, holy Blanche!
20 In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.

Blanche (rising.) Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit. — I can rise

And say, — “ Thy will be done!” 35 D'AUBIGNE' (pointing upwards.) Seest thou, my child,

Yon faint light in the west ? The signal-star

Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon-grating ! — Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,

This night alone, without the lifted voice 5 Of adoration in our narrow cell,

As if unworthy Fear or wavering Faith
Silenced the strain ? — No! let it waft to Heaven
The Prayer, the Hope, of poor Mortality,

In its dark hour once more ! — And we will sleep 10 Yes, calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.

(They sing together.)


EVERETT. [The following extract is the concluding portion of a speech delivered by Mr. Everett, October 27, 1852, in Faneuil Hall, Boston, at a meeting of the cit. izens of Boston, assembled in consequence of the death of Mr. Webster, which had taken place on the 24th.]

Among the many memorable words which fell from the lips of our friend just before they were closed forever, the most remarkable are those which have been quoted by a

previous speaker, — " I STILL LIVE.” They attest the se5 rene composure of his mind; the Christian heroism with

which he was able to turn his consciousness in upon himself, and explore, step by step, the dark passage (dark to us, but to him, we trust, already lighted from above),

which connects this world with the world to come. But I 10 know not what words could have been better chosen to

express his relation to the world he was leaving — “I still live.” This poor dust is just returning to the dust from which it was taken, but I feel that I live in the affections

of the people to whose services I have consecrated my 15 days. “I still live.” The icy hand of death is already laid on my heart, but I shall still live in those words of counsel which I have uttered to my fellow-citizens, and which I now leave them as the last bequest of a dying

friend. 5 In the long and honored career of our lamented friend,

there are efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one of the brightest pages of our history. But I greatly ert if the closing scene — the height of the religious sublime

- does not, in the judgment of other days, far transcend 10 in interest the brightest exploits of public life. Within

that darkened chamber at Marshfield was witnessed a scene of which we shall not readily find the parallel. The serenity with which he stood in the presence of the King

of Terrors, without trepidation or flutter, for hours and 15 days of expectation: the thoughtfulness for the public busi

ness, when the sands were so nearly run out; the hospitable care for the reception of the friends who came to Marshfield; that affectionate and solemn leave separately taken,

name by name, of wife and children and kindred and 20 friends and family, down to the humblest members of the

household; the designation of the coming day, then near at hand, when “all that was mortal of Daniel Webster should cease to exist!” the dimly-recollected strains of

the funeral poetry of Gray; the last faint flash of the 25 soaring intellect; the feebly-murmured words of Holy Writ

repeated from the lips of the good physician, who, when all the resources of human art had been exhausted, had a drop of spiritual balm for the parting soul; the clasped

hands; the dying prayers. Oh! my fellow-citizens, this 30 is a consummation over which tears of pious sympathy

will be shed ages after the glories of the forum and the senate are forgotten.

“His sufferings ended with the day,

Yet lived he at its close;
And breathed the long, long night away,

In statue-like repose.

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