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Perhaps, in its high state is not unconscious
Of what remains behind; perhaps, beholds
The very spot. Oh, if she does! her pity—
Her pity, yea, her love now rest upon me.
Her spirit, from the body newly freed,
Was in my father's house, ere it departed
To its celestial home; was it not sympathy?
O! Emma, Emma! could I surely know
That I was dear to thee, a word,—a token
Had been to me a cherish'd, rich possession,
Outvaluing all that martial chiefs contend for
On their embattled fields.—Ha! who approaches?

Enter Claude.

Come not, I warn thee, near this sacred spot.

(Springing up from the ground.)

CLAUDE.

A sacred spot, indeed! but yet to all

Who loved in life the dead whom it contains,
Free as the house of God.

MALCOLM.

I say it is not.

In this, her first night of the grave, the man
Who loved her best when living, claims a right
To watch the new-closed tomb, and none beside.

CLAUDE.

Then yield to me that right, for it is mine;

For I have loved her longest,—long ere thou
Hadst look'd upon her face, or heard her name.