And all will thank me on a future day.” 750 So judged the lady, nor appear’d to grieve, Till the young soldier came to take his leave; But not of all assembled—No! he found His gentle sisters all in sorrow drown’d; With many a shaken hand, and many a kiss, He cried, “Farewell! a solemn business this; Nay, Susan, Sophy!—heaven and earth, my dears! I am a soldier—What do I with tears?” He sought his parents;—they together walk’d, And of their son, his views and dangers, talk’d; 760 They knew not how to blame their friend, but still They murmur’d, “She may save us if she will; Were not these visions working in her mind Strange things—’tis in her nature to be kind.” Their son appear’d—He sooth’d them, and was bless’d, But still the fondness of his soul confess’d— And where the lady?—To her room retired! Now show, dear son, the courage she required. George bow’d in silence, trying for assent To his hard fate, and to his trial went: 770 Fond, but yet fix’d, he found her in her room; } Firm, and yet fearful, she beheld him come; } Nor sought he favour now—No! he would meet his doom. } “Farewell! and, Madam, I beseech you pray That this sad spirit soon may pass away; That sword or ball would to the dust restore This body, that the soul may grieve no more For love rejected——O! that I could quit The life I lothe, who am for nothing fit, No, not to die!”——“Unhappy, wilt thou make 780 The house all wretched for thy passion’s sake? And most its grieving object?”— “Grieving?—No! Or as a conqueror mourns a dying foe, That makes his triumph sure——Couldst thou deplore The evil done, the pain would be no more; But an accursed dream has steel’d thy breast, And all the woman in thy soul suppress’d.”— “O! it was vision, George; a vision true As ever seer or holy prophet knew.”— “Can spirits, lady, though they might alarm, 790 Make an impression on that lovely arm? A little cold the cause, a little heat, Or vein minute, or artery’s morbid beat; Even beauty these [admits].”— “I did behold My brother’s form.”— “Yes, so thy Fancy told, When in the morning she her work survey’d, And call’d the doubtful memory to her aid.”— “Nay, think! the night he died—the very night!”— } “’Tis very true, and so perchance he might; } But in thy mind—not, lady, in thy sight! 800} Thou wert not well; forms delicately made These dreams and fancies easily invade; The mind and body feel the slow disease, And dreams are what the troubled fancy sees.”— “O! but how strange that all should be combined!”— “True; but such combinations we may find; A dream’s predicted number gain’d a prize, } Yet dreams make no impression on the wise, } Though some chance good, some lucky gain may rise.” }