Page:A Series of Plays on the Passions Volume 3.pdf/131

Urst. Submit thy soul to Heaven's all-wise decree.
Perhaps his life had blasted more thy hopes
Than ev'n his grievous end.

Hugh. He was not all a father's heart could wish;
But, oh! he was my son!—my only son:
My child—the thing that from his cradle grew,
And was before me, still.—Oh, oh! Oh, oh!
(Beating his breast, and groaning deeply.)

Or. (running up to him.)
Ha! dost thou groan, old man? Art thou in trouble?
Out on it! tho' they lay him in the mould,
He's near thee still.—I'll tell thee how it is:
A hideous burst hath been: the damn'd and holy,
The living and the dead, together are
In horrid neighbourship—'Tis but thin vapour,
Floating around thee, makes the wav'ring bound.
Poh! blow it off, and see th' uncurtain'd reach.
See! from all points they come; earth casts them up!
In grave-clothes swath'd are those but new in death;
And there be some half bone, half cased in shreds
Of that which flesh hath been; and there be some
With wicker'd ribs, thro' which the darkness scowls.
Back, back!—They close upon us:—Oh! the void