I do not yield myself to thee, although my sight has flown away upon the wings of the wind, and is flitting restlessly about through infinite space: it will return to me--my eyes will open with a flash of flame--and I will see the universe! GODFATHER. He talks exactly as his mother did; he does not know what he is saying, I think his condition very critical. PHYSICIAN. He is in great danger. NURSE. Holy Mother of God! take my eyes, and give them to the poor boy! GEORGE. My mother, I entreat thee! O mother, send me thoughts and images, that I may create within myself a world like the one I have lost forever! FIRST RELATION. Do you think, brother, it will be necessary to call a family consultation? SECOND RELATION. Be silent! GEORGE. Thou answerest me not, my mother! O mother, do not desert me! PHYSICIAN (_to the Man_). It is my duty to tell you the truth. GODFATHER. Yes, to tell the truth is the duty and virtue of a physician! PHYSICIAN. Your son is suffering from incipient insanity, connected with an extraordinary excitability of the nervous system, which sometimes occasions, if I may so express myself, the strange phenomenon of sleeping and waking at the same time, as in the case now before us. THE MAN (_aside_). He reads to me thy sentence, O my God! PHYSICIAN. Give me pen, ink, and paper. He writes a prescription. THE MAN. I think it best you should all now retire; George needs rest. SEVERAL VOICES. Good night! good night! good night! GEORGE (_waking suddenly_). Are they wishing me good night, father? They should rather speak of a long, unbroken, eternal night, but of no good one, of no happy dawn for me.... THE MAN. Lean on me, George. Let me support you to the bed. GEORGE. What does all this mean, father? THE MAN. Cover yourself up, and go quietly to sleep. The doctor says you will regain your sight. GEORGE. I feel so very unwell, father; strange voices roused me from my sleep, and I saw mamma standing in a field of lilies.... He falls asleep. THE MAN. Bless thee! bless thee, my poor boy! I can give thee nothing but a blessing; neither happiness, nor light, nor fame are in my gift. The stormy hour of struggle approaches, when I must combat with the _few_ against the _many_. Tortured infant! what is then to become of thee, alone, helpless, blind, surrounded by a thousand dangers? Child, yet Poet, poor Singer without a hearer, with thy soul in heaven, and thy frail, suffering body still fettered to the earth--what is to be thy doom? Alas, miserable infant! thou most unfortunate of all the angels! my son! my son! He buries his face in his hands. NURSE (_knocking at the door_). The doctor desires to see his excellency as soon as convenient. THE MAN. My good Katharine, watch faithfully and tenderly over my poor son! Exit. THE NORTH CAROLINA CONSCRIPT. Ballads of the War.