Roderick so long had to this hour look’d on, That when the actual point of trial came, Torpid and numb’d it found him; cold he grew, And as the vital spirits to the heart Retreated, o’er his wither’d countenance, Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread. Unmoved the while, the inward feeling seem’d, Even in such dull insensibility As gradual age brings on, or slow disease, Beneath whose progress lingering life survives The power of suffering. Wondering at himself, Yet gathering confidence, he raised his eyes, Then slowly shaking as he bent his head, O venerable Lady, he replied, If aught may comfort that unhappy soul, It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers. She whom he most hath wrong’d, she who alone On earth can grant forgiveness for his crime, She hath forgiven him; and thy blessing now Were all that he could ask, ... all that could bring Profit or consolation to his soul, If he hath been as sure we may believe, A penitent sincere. Oh had he lived, Replied Rusilla, never penitence Had equall’d his! full well I know his heart, Vehement in all things. He would on himself Have wreak’d such penance as had reach’d the height Of fleshly suffering ... yea, which being told With its portentuous rigour should have made The memory of his fault, o’erpower’d and lost In shuddering pity and astonishment, Fade like a feebler horror. Otherwise Seem’d good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubt The boundless mercy of redeeming love. For sure I trust that not in his offence Harden’d and reprobate was my lost son, A child of wrath, cut off!... that dreadful thought, Not even amid the first fresh wretchedness, When the ruin burst around me like a flood, Assail’d my soul. I ever deem’d his fall An act of sudden madness; and this day Hath in unlook’d-for confirmation given A livelier hope, a more assurëd faith. Smiling benignant then amid her tears, She took Florinda by the hand, and said, I little thought that I should live to bless Count Julian’s daughter! She hath brought to me The last, the best, the only comfort earth Could minister to this afflicted heart, And my grey hairs may now unto the grave Go down in peace. Happy, Florinda cried, Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store! The wrongs they have sustain’d, the woes they bear, Pass not that holy threshold, where Death heals The broken heart. O Lady, thou may’st trust In humble hope, through Him who on the Cross Gave his atoning blood for lost mankind, To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven. I too with Roderick there may interchange Forgiveness. But the grief which wastes away This mortal frame, hastening the happy hour Of my enlargement, is but a light part Of what my soul endures!... that grief hath lost Its sting: ... I have a keener sorrow here, ... One which, ... but God forefend that dire event, ...