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YOUNG ARDEN.

Alas! my own dear mother! wring not your hands so wildly.

MRS. ARDEN.

Wo is me! In the very blossom of thy youth! thou pride—thou flower of my bosom!

YOUNG ARDEN.

How many mother's sons, not much older than me, die far distant on the ocean, on the field of battle, with many terrible wounds; and here I am beside you, mother, and shall look upon you, and keep hold of your hand till the last.—My father; where are you? Give me your hand. (Taking Arden's hand, and joining it with his wife's.) There, mother; I have earned him for you, and he will take care of you.—Will you not now be united in steady unbroken affection? This cheers me; this makes death almost pleasant to me.

ARDEN.

My boy! my noble sacrificed boy! this is agony.

YOUNG ARDEN.

Say not so, father! Mourn for me, but let it not be with this bitter grief. I am not sorry to die. I have, I fear, offended my great and awful Father; but I have prayed to Him to punish and forgive me. This is my punishment, and