A little air; once more a breath of air; Alas! I faint; I die.

_Eup._ Heart-piercing sight!

Let me support you, sir.

_Eva._ Oh! lend your arm.

Whoe'er thou art, I thank thee: that kind breeze Comes gently o'er my senses--lead me forward: And is there left one charitable hand To reach its succour to a wretch like me?

_Eup._ Well may'st thou ask it. O! my breaking heart!

The hand of death is on him.

_Eva._ Still a little, A little onward to the air conduct me; 'Tis well;--I thank thee; thou art kind and good, And much I wonder at this gen'rous pity.

_Eup._ Dost thou not know me, sir?

_Eva._ Methinks I know That voice: art thou--alas! my eyes are dim!

Each object swims before me--No, in truth I do not know thee.

_Eup._ Not your own Euphrasia?

_Eva._ Art thou my daughter?

_Eup._ Oh! my honour'd sire!

_Eva._ My daughter, my Euphrasia? come to close A father's eyes! Giv'n to my last embrace!

G.o.ds! do I hold her once again? Your mercies Are without number. [_Falls on the Couch._ This excess of bliss O'erpow'rs; it kills; Euphrasia--could I hope it?

I die content--Art thou indeed my daughter?

Thou art; my hand is moisten'd with thy tears: I pray you do not weep--thou art my child: I thank you, G.o.ds! in my last dying moments You have not left me--I would pour my praise; But oh! your goodness overcomes me quite!

You read my heart; you see what pa.s.ses there.

_Eup._ Alas, he faints! the gushing tide of transport Bears down each feeble sense: restore him, Heaven!

_Eva._ All, my Euphrasia, all will soon be well.

Pa.s.s but a moment, and this busy globe, Its thrones, its empires, and its bustling millions, Will seem a speck in the great void of s.p.a.ce.

Yet, while I stay, thou darling of my age!-- Nay, dry those tears.

_Eup._ I will, my father.

_Eva._ Where,-- I fear to ask it, where is virtuous Phocion?

_Eup._ Fled from the tyrant's pow'r.

_Eva._ And left thee here Expos'd and helpless?

_Eup._ He is all truth and honour: He fled to save my child.

_Eva._ My young Evander!

Your boy is safe, Euphrasia?--Oh! my heart!

Alas! quite gone; worn out with misery; Oh! weak, decay'd old man!

_Eup._ Inhuman wretches!

Will none relieve his want? A drop of water Might save his life; and even that's deny'd him.

_Eva._ These strong emotions--Oh! that eager air-- It is too much--a.s.sist me; bear me hence; And lay me down in peace.

_Eup._ His eyes are fix'd!

And those pale, quiv'ring lips! He clasps my hand: What, no a.s.sistance! Monsters, will you thus Let him expire in these weak, feeble arms?

_Enter PHILOTAS._

_Phil._ Those wild, those piercing shrieks will give th'alarm.

_Eup._ Support him; bear him hence; 'tis all I ask.

_Evan._ [_As he is carried off._] O Death! where art thou? Death, thou dread of guilt, Thou wish of innocence, affliction's friend, Tir'd nature calls thee; come, in mercy come, And lay me pillow'd in eternal rest.

My child--where art thou? give me; reach thy hand, Why dost thou weep?--My eyes are dry--Alas!

Quite parch'd, my lips--quite parch'd, they cleave together.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter ARCAS._

_Arcas._ The grey of morn breaks thro' yon eastern clouds.

'Twere time this interview should end: the hour Now warns Euphrasia hence: what man could dare, I have indulg'd--Philotas!--ha! the cell Left void!--Evander gone!--What may this mean?

Philotas, speak.

_Enter PHILOTAS._

_Phil._ Oh! vile, detested lot, Here to obey the savage tyrant's will, And murder virtue that can thus behold Its executioner, and smile upon him.

That piteous sight!

_Arcas._ She must withdraw, Philotas; Delay undoes us both. The restless main Glows with the blush of day.

The time requires Without or further pause, or vain excuse, That she depart this moment.

_Phil._ Arcas, yes; My voice shall warn her of th' approaching danger. [_Exit._

_Arcas._ 'Would she had ne'er adventur'd to our guard!

I dread th' event; and hark!--the wind conveys In clearer sound the uproar of the main.

The fates prepare new havoc; on th' event Depends the fate of empire. Wherefore thus Delays Euphrasia? Ha! what means, Philotas, That sudden haste, that pale, disorder'd look?

_Enter PHILOTAS._

_Phil._ O! I can hold no more; at such a sight Ev'n the hard heart of tyranny would melt To infant softness. Arcas, go, behold The pious fraud of charity and love; Behold that unexampled goodness; see Th' expedient sharp necessity has taught her; Thy heart will burn, will melt, will yearn to view A child like her.

_Arcas._ Ha!--say what mystery Wakes these emotions?

_Phil._ Wonder-working virtue!

The father foster'd at his daughter's breast!

O! filial piety!--The milk design'd For her own offspring, on the parent's lip Allays the parching fever.

_Arcas._ That device Has she then form'd, eluding all our care, To minister relief?