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Scene V.
library of the mansion. Parents and children assemble for prayers.Mother.
It seems so strange to pray, now we are given
So much we toiled and prayed for! Still, true prayers
Are partly thanks; and though each separate one
Reached through eternity—and it were then
By millions and by millions multiplied—
'Twere not enough to give our God for Heaven;
And 'tis our duty, from this vantage-ground,
To plead for those who suffer still on earth.
Husband.
You know it was a favorite plan of ours,
In each day's first-formed prayer, to counsel well
What I should ask for; oft thus giving aim
To the petition; let us counsel now.
Wife.
Good customs wear but brighter with the years.
How sweet that good devices ne'er grow old!
Yes, I have prayers—thousands of silent prayers—
That I would love to have you lend a voice,
And proffer for me, even here in Heaven:
For misled mortals, who on earth still creep
Through thorns of others' wretchedness and vice:
For mothers, in eternities of pangs;
For fathers, in proud, sad solicitude;
For youths and maidens, when temptation smiles;
For those who struggle in disease's clutch;
For those who strangle in the sloughs of crime;
For ships that fight through battles of the storms,
And mortals clinging to their dripping sides;
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For toilers, stifling in blockaded mines;
For wayward feet that led hearts into fire;
For mangled forms beneath unflinching wheels;
For those who starve, with treasures round them stored;
For those whose blood has rusted murderers' knives—
Much more for murderers with crime-rusted souls;
For those who breathe the fogs of pestilence;
For prisoners in unjustly-welded chains—
Still more for those whose punishment is just;
For sick ones—hating life and dreading death;
For mourners with their wounded hearts entombed;
For suffering every way and everywhere;
Nay, if it be not wrong—for spirits lost!
Husband.
The same sweet soul, with pity in each throb!
And for yourself, can you no favor ask,
Or (as pure wish in Heaven for one's self
Is the accomplishment) can you not tell
Of some dear want, which, if it has been met,
You know not of the granting?
Wife.
Husband mine,
You know the babe that lived but one short hour;
She was our last bud from the vines of Heaven.
And I, 'mid throes of pain, was comforted,
Because, I mused, her sweet and winsome heart
Would cherish me when our dear older ones
Had grown away from us. But one short hour—
One hope-strewn, fear-strewn, pain-strewn hour—she lived.
How much I have been thinking of her, dear—
Have longed for her! Say, have you ever seen
This sweet-breathed baby of our later love?
I yearn so sadly for her!
[Enter the Little Girl guide, and rushes into the mother's arms.
Little Girl.
I am she.
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