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THE MYSTERIOUS MOTHER.

It is thy Edmund's voice; blest, if thy eyes
Awake to bless him—Soft! her pulse returns;
She breathes—oh! speak. Dear parent, mother, hear!
'Tis Edmund—Friar, wherefore is this horror?
Am I then deadly to her eyes?—Dumb still!
Speak, tho' it be to curse me—I have kill'd her!
My brain grows hot—

BENEDICT.
My brain grows hot—My lord, restrain your passion;
See! she revives—

EDMUND.
With dread of thy dOh! if these lips that quiver
With dread of thy disdain, have force to move thee
With nature's, duty's, or affection's voice,
Feel how I print thy hand with burning zeal,
Tho' tortur'd at this awful interval!
Art thou, or not, a mother?

COUNTESS.
Why do you hold me? Was Hah! where am I?
Why do you hold me? Was it not my Narbonne?
I saw him—on my soul I did—

EDMUND.
She raves—recall thy wand'ringAlas!
She raves—recall thy wand'ring apprehension—
It was no phantom: at thy feet behold—

COUNTESS.
Hah! whom! quick, answer—Narbonne, dost thou live?
Or comest to transport me to perdition?

BENEDICT.
Madam, behold your son: he kneels for pardon.
And I, I innocent, I ignorant
Of what he was, implore it too—

COUNTESS.