Can it extinguish nature--soothe its feelings--
Or make the small still voice of conscience dumb?
My sons! my sons! Though ye should hold me guiltless, there's a tongue
Within me whispers, _I'm your murderer!_
Ah! my Matilda! hadst thou been less noble,
We both had been less wretched! But do I,
To hide my sin, place't on the mother's heart?
Though she did hide the _mother_ from _men's_ eyes,
Now, crushed by woes, she cannot look on _mine_.
But, locked in secret, weeps her soul away,
That it may meet her children's! I alone,
Widowed and childless, like a blasted oak
Reft of its root and branches, must be left
For every storm to howl at!

[ELLIOT _enters with a dagger_.

Ah, my sons!
Could anguish rend my heartstrings, I should not
Behold another sun rise on my misery!

_Elliot [springing upon him]_.--By Heavens, mine enemy,
I swear thou shalt not!

_They struggle. Shouting without. Enter_ FRIAR _and_
SETON'S SONS, PROVOST RAMSAY. FRIAR _springs forward_.

_Friar_.--Down! traitor, down! [_Stabs_ ELLIOT.

_Sir Alex_.--My sons! my sons!