[_Exit with emotion._

M'DONALD.

Triumph of virtue!
Like him and thee, still be Americans.
Then, tho' all-powerful Europe league against us,
And pour in arms her legions on our shores;
Who is so dull would doubt their shameful flight?
Who doubt our safety, and our glorious triumph?

SCENE, _the Prison._

_Enter BLAND._

BLAND.

Lingering, I come to crush the bud of hope
My breath has, flattering, to existence warm'd.
Hard is the task to friendship! hard to say,
To the lov'd object there remains no hope,
No consolation for thee; thou _must_ die;
The worst of deaths; no circumstance abated.

_Enter ANDRE in his uniform, and dress'd._

ANDRE.

Is there that state on earth which friendship cannot cheer?

BLAND.

Little _I_ bring to cheer thee, Andre.

ANDRE.

I understand. 'T is well. 'T will soon be past.
Yet, 't was not much I ask'd. A soldier's death.
A trifling change of form.

BLAND.

Of that I spoke not.
By vehemence of passion hurried on,
I pleaded for thy precious life alone;
The which denied, my indignation barr'd
All further parley. But strong solicitation
Now is urg'd to gain the wish'd-for favour.

ANDRE.

What is 't o'clock?

BLAND.

'T is past the stroke of nine.

ANDRE.

Why, then, 't is almost o'er. But to be hung--
Is there no way to escape that infamy?
What then _is_ infamy?--no matter--no matter.

BLAND.

Our General hath received another flag.

ANDRE.

Soliciting for me?

BLAND.

On thy behalf.

ANDRE.

I have been ever favour'd.

BLAND.

Threat'nings, now;
No more solicitations. Harsh, indeed,
The import of the message: harsh, indeed.

ANDRE.

I am sorry for it. Would that I were dead,
And all was well with those I leave behind.

BLAND.

Such a threat! Is it not enough, just heaven,
That I must lose this man? Yet there was left
One for my soul to rest on. But, to know
That the same blow deprives them both of life--

ANDRE.

What mean'st thou, Bland? Surely my General
Threats not retaliation. In vengeance,
Dooms not some better man to die for me?

BLAND.

The best of men.

ANDRE.

Thou hast a father, captive--
I dare not ask--

BLAND.

That father dies for thee.

ANDRE.

Gracious heaven! how woes are heap'd upon me!
What! cannot one, so trifling in life