,
I'll trust no more--Thy choice is made, and may
That choice prove all thy fondest dreams e'er pictured!
Blest be thy days as the first man's in Eden,
Before sin was! Be thy brave lord's affection
Firm as his valour, lovely as thy form!
And shouldst thou ever know, with thy whole soul
What 'tis to love a child, and hold it dearer
Than freedom, light, or life--Oh may that darling
Show thee more faith than thou hast shown to me.
I've done--Have there the deed--Farewell!

_Amel._ [_Grasping the hand which he extends
with the parchment, and pressing it to her lips._] Have mercy!

_Alfon._ Mercy?--On whom?

_Amel._ An humbled, breaking heart,
But which, though breaking, loves thee dearly, dearly!
Throw me not from thee!

_Alfon._ Hast not all thy wishes?
Thy husband's pardon, honour, wealth, and freedom,
To live with whom, and how, and where thou wilt?
What wouldst thou more?

_Amel._ That, without which all these
Are nothing, and each seeming grace true curses!
Thy heart! thy heart my father! Give me that!
Thy whole, whole heart, such as I once possessed it,
Soft--kind--indulgent--open--feeling--fond!
'Tis this I ask,--or, this denied, to die.
Yes! strike me at your foot; spurn, trample, crush me!
Twist in my streaming locks your hand, and drag me,
Till from my wounded bosom streams of blood
Gush forth, and dye the marble red!--All this
Were far less anguish to a _generous_ soul,
Than this so torturing love, so cruel kindness!

_Alfon._ I will not hear----

_Amel._ Oh! leave me not, my father,
Nor bid me leave thee! Let my anguish move thee;
Let not, though great, a single error lose me
The fruits of twenty years pass'd in thy service,
Which in thy service pass'd seemed short as moments.

_Alfon._ It must not be--

_Amel._ You would, but cannot hide it;
I still am dear! Each look, each feature speaks it,
Speaks to a softening heart--Oh! hear its pleading,
And bid me stay! I'll only stay to love thee!
Look on me! mark my altered form! observe
The strong convulsions of my gasping bosom!
See my wan cheeks, eyes swoln, lips trembling! feel
How scalding are the tears with which I dew
This dear, dear hand! Judge by thy own _my_ sufferings,
And bid me cease to suffer; when with force,
Such as despair alone can give, and louder
Than fiends implore from their volcanic prisons
The Arch-angel's grace, I cry to thee--"Have mercy."--

_Alfon._ My child--No, no!--'Twere weakness--

_Amel._ Weakness, say'st th