A Room in the Governor’s House

Seton (solus.)

This fearful conflict, with paternal love And duty to my country, is most dreadful; Sure my poor heart will break, or burst the steel That laces it. I’ve somewhere read of men Who died for friendship; of a judge who pass’d Sentence on his own son; but I have ne’er Heard of that man who sacrificed his child To save his country. It is horrible! Bury me, earth; for what were fame, promotion, To live the murderer—is there in our language A term so unnatural—live the murderer Of one’s own child! Good Heaven! I’d better live A life of wo, an outcast from society, Than be the death of one so young and gentle, Who holds a charter, drawn on me by nature, Of preservation. Ha! I see even now My boy down on his knees, begging his life! Asking his father not to shed his blood. I am a monster, that with sad delay Pass sentence on my son. These eyes behold His tongue choked up and palsied with the halter; That tongue—whose parting accents blest its father! Here comes a sorry comforter, poor lady! She walks like Melancholy; and I dread The sternness of her dull perturbed look. Enter LADY SETON. Hail, gentle Christian! I am sick at heart; The want of sleep, and fearful dreams, have thrown A languor o’er my spirits.