MORGAN.

Good Father! go thou to him, for this doubt
That lays its stony spell upon his heart,
Is sadder far than tears—­

MONK.

It is mine office
Still to bear balm unto the bleeding heart;
Then lead on, friend, and let us trust in Heaven.

[They pass in.

II.—­In the Chamber.

LLEWELLYN and MONK.

MONK.

Benedicite! my son;

LLEWELLYN.

Hush! speak low,
The child is sleeping.

MONK.

Ay! we should speak low
Where Death is, though no sound can ever wake
Those whom he cradles in his bony arms.

LLEWELLYN.

Who speaks of Death in presence of a child!

MONK.

Alas! my son, the bud though ne’er so close
It fold the fragrant treasure of its youth,
Is by the nip of Winter shorn betimes.

LLEWELLYN.

Though Death should grimly stalk into the house,
And stand beside the slumber of a child,
Think you that gazing on its mimic self,
Sleep, beautiful and wondrous, in the crib,
His owlish thoughts would not wing suddenly,
Through cycles of decay, back to the time
When he was one with Sleep, and passing fair;
Think you he would not sigh, “Sleep, on! sleep on! 
Thou copy and thou counterfeit of me,
And teach the world that I was beautiful.” 
The child is sleeping.

MONK.

O my son! my son! 
These are delusions that but wrong the soul,
And keep the aching thoughts from peace and Heaven.

LLEWELLYN.

Why, Father, if Death woke him as he lay,
The lad would look up at him with a smile,
And twist his little limbs in childish sport,
Until the angel, surfeited with fear,
Would love and spare the thing that fear’d him not. 
No man could see his pretty ways and frown,—­
And he was full of little childish tricks,
That won the very heart out of a man
In spite of him.  There’s Beowolf the Curst,
With ne’er a gentle word for man or child,
But cold and crusty as a northern hill—­
Why this day sen’night did my master there,
Crawl up his knees without a Yea or Nay,
And toy’d him with his sword-hilt merrily,
Till the rough man, caught with his gamesome arts,
Swore that he had the making of a man;
And, for the maids, there’s none but has a word,
Or kiss to bandy with the gainsome lad;
Ay! when he wakes you’ll see how he will crow,
And fill the place with laughter—­he’s no girl,
Puking and mewling evermore—­not he.

MONK.

Good lack! my son, your heart is too much set
Upon the child, to bow before Heav’n’s will,
That turns your soul back to itself with stripes;
Oh! know you not, Sir, that the child is dead?

LLEWELLYN.

You all have conn’d the same wise tale by rote—­
The child is sleeping; hush! and wake him not.