Bland monologue (Act 3) — André

You hold the fate of my most lov'd of friends; As gallant soldier as e'er faced a foe, Bless'd with each polish'd gift of social life, And every virtue of humanity. To me, a saviour from the pit of death, To me, and many more my countrymen. Oh! could my words portray him what he is; Bring to your mind the blessings of his deeds, While thro' the fever-heated, loathsome holds, Of floating hulks, dungeons obscene, where ne'er The dewy breeze of morn, or evening's coolness, Breath'd on our parching skins, he pass'd along, Diffusing blessings; still his power exerting, To alleviate the woes which ruthless war, Perhaps, thro' dire necessity, heap'd on us; Surely, the scene would move you to forget His late intent--(tho' only serving then, As duty prompted)--and turn the rigour Of War's iron law from him, the best of men, Meant only for the worst.