ARL. He came too late. From heaps of slain he snatched him, Then bore him to a distance, yet alive; But dews of death were gathering on his brow, And his dim eye betrayed departure near. He dared not turn him on his side, lest life From that deep welling wound should 'scape too fast. He watched the sun go down, and darker shades O'erspread his face. Impatient now become, Often he murmured to himself and said, "It is too late; he will not come, and I Must die at last without my father's blessing."
OFF. Many brave hearts will mourn for him: he was A noble scion of a noble stem.
ARL. We thought that he was gone, when the quick step Of his despairing father sounded near. Stern death relaxed his hold, and for short space Allowed his spirit to reanimate His chilly frame. He raised him on his side, Clung round his father's neck, and looking on him, Feebly he said, "Have I done well, my father? Am I John Talbot's son?" "Too well! too well! My brave"--was all the father could reply; But 'twas enough--the young man caught the sound. And dropping back his head, he smiled and died.
ARL. As if transfixed, he gazed, And mute--then by the body of his son He threw him down, kissed his cold lips, and oft, Midst sobs, he cried, "And art thou gone so soon? Thy morning ended ere thy noon begun; And such a noon!" but sudden on his hands He saw the crimson stain of that dear blood, And like a lion maddened at the sight, His grief was checked, and springing on his feet He seized his massy sword, and wildly rushed Into the fight.
OFF. See figures in the dusk Moving apace. (_Two soldiers appear._)
WID. Half light, half dark. Oh, would that reason's lamp Were utterly extinct, and I could lose The sense that thus I am a tomb to self, Where the dim taper only shows its gloom. Then I should feel no more, no longer mourn, And my poor heart would cease to throb, my head To burn. One,--three are gone, and now the last. I have no more to lose! I'll lay him in the bed these hands have dug, (I've kiss'd his eyes to sleep,) and then I'll seek The spirits of my lord and other boys, And bring them here to see, how, e'en in poverty, I've made a home fitting Camouse's son. E'en now I lose myself, and at my folly Smile while I weep. But hark! what steps are these? I must within and guard.