Page:Miscellaneous Plays 1.pdf/145

I'll grasp at hope, and will not let it go.
(Bending over the couch.)
My son! my son! hear'st thou my voice, my son?

COUNT ZATERLOO.

Yes, mother: I have had a fearful struggle.

'Tis a strong enemy that grapples with me,
And I must yield to him.—O pious father!
Pray thou for mercy on me.

COUNTESS ZATERLOO.

Yes, my son,

This holy man shall pray for thee; the shrines
Of holiest saints be gifted for thee; masses
And sacred hymns be chanted for thy peace:—
And thou thyself, even 'midst thine agony,
Had spoken precious words of heav'nly grace;
Therefore be comforted.

COUNT ZATERLOO (shaking his head).

There is no comfort here: dark, veil'd, and terrible,

That which abides me; and how short a space——

COUNTESS ZATERLOO.

O thou may'st yet recover!

CONFESSOR.

Lady, forbear! this is no time to soothe

With flatt'ring hopes: his term is near its close;
Therefore, I do again entreat it of you,
Send off the messengcr with his confession,