_Cal._ This sullen musing in these drear abodes Alarms suspicion: the king knows thy plottings, Thy rooted hatred to the state and him.

His sov'reign will commands thee to repair This moment to his presence.

_Eup._ Ha! what means The tyrant?--I obey. [_Exit CALIPPUS._] And, oh! ye pow'rs, Ye ministers of Heaven, defend my father; Support his drooping age; and when anon Avenging justice shakes her crimson steel, Oh! be the grave at least a place of rest; That from his covert, in the hour of peace, Forth he may come to bless a willing people, And be your own just image here on earth. [_Exit._

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.

_Enter DIONYSIUS, CALIPPUS, &c._

_Dio._ Away each vain alarm; the sun goes down: Nor yet Timoleon issues from his fleet.

There let him linger on the wave-worn beach; Here the vain Greek shall find another Troy, A more than Hector here. Though Carthage fly, Ourself, still Dionysius, here remains.

And means the Greek to treat of terms of peace?

By Heav'n, this panting bosom hop'd to meet His boasted phalanx on the embattled plain.

And doth he now, on peaceful councils bent, Despatch his herald?--Let the slave approach.

_Enter the HERALD._

Now speak thy purpose; what doth Greece impart?

_Her._ Timoleon, sir, whose great renown in arms Is equall'd only by the softer virtues Of mild humanity, that sway his heart, Sends me his delegate to offer terms, On which ev'n foes may well accord; on which The fiercest nature, though it spurns at justice, May sympathize with his.

_Dio._ Unfold thy mystery; Thou shalt be heard.

_Her._ The gen'rous leader sees, With pity sees, the wild destructive havoc Of ruthless war; he hath survey'd around The heaps of slain that cover yonder field, And, touch'd with gen'rous sense of human woe, Weeps o'er his victories.

_Dio._ Your leader weeps!

Then let the author of those ills thou speak'st of, Let the ambitious factor of destruction, Timely retreat, and close the scene of blood.

Why doth affrighted peace behold his standard Uprear'd in Sicily? and wherefore here The iron ranks of war, from which the shepherd Retires appall'd, and leaves the blasted hopes Of half the year, while closer to her breast The mother clasps her infant?

_Her._ 'Tis not mine To plead Timoleon's cause; not mine the office To justify the strong, the righteous motives That urge him to the war: the only scope My deputation aims at, is to fix An interval of peace, a pause of horror, That they, whose bodies, on the naked sh.o.r.e, Lie weltering in their blood, from either host May meet the last sad rites to nature due, And decent lie in honourable graves.

_Dio._ Go tell your leader, his pretexts are vain.

Let him, with those that live, embark for Greece, And leave our peaceful plains; the mangled limbs Of those he murder'd, from my tender care Shall meet due obsequies.

_Her._ The hero, sir, Wages no war with those, who bravely die.

'Tis for the dead I supplicate; for them We sue for peace; and to the living too Timoleon would extend it, but the groans Of a whole people have unsheath'd his sword.

A single day will pay the funeral rites.

To-morrow's sun may see both armies meet Without hostility, and all in honour; You to inter the troops who bravely fell; We, on our part, to give an humble sod To those, who gain'd a footing on the isle, And by their death have conquer'd.

_Dio._ Be it so; I grant thy suit: soon as to-morrow's dawn Illume the world, the rage of wasting war In vain shall thirst for blood.

Thou know'st my last resolve, and now farewell.

Some careful officer conduct him forth.

[_Exit HERALD._

By Heav'n, the Greek hath offered to my sword An easy prey; a sacrifice to glut My great revenge. Calippus, let each soldier This night resign his wearied limbs to rest, That ere the dawn, with renovated strength, On the unguarded, unsuspecting foe, Disarm'd, and bent on superst.i.tious rites, From every quarter we may rush undaunted, Give the invaders to the deathful steel, And by one carnage bury all in ruin.

My valiant friends, haste to your several posts, And let this night a calm unruffled spirit Lie hush'd in sleep: away, my friends, disperse.

Philotas, waits Euphrasia as we order'd?

_Phil._ She's here at hand.

_Dio._ Admit her to our presence.

Rage and despair, a thousand warring pa.s.sions, All rise by turns, and piecemeal rend my heart.

Yet ev'ry means, all measures must be tried, To sweep the Grecian spoiler from the land, And fix the crown unshaken on my brow.

_Enter EUPHRASIA._

_Eup._ What sudden cause requires Euphrasia's presence?

_Dio._ Approach, fair mourner, and dispel thy fears.

Thy grief, thy tender duty to thy father, Has touch'd me nearly. In his lone retreat, Respect, attendance, every lenient care To sooth affliction, and extend his life, Evander has commanded.

_Eup._ Vile dissembler!

Detested homicide! [_Aside._]--And has thy heart Felt for the wretched?

_Dio._ Urgencies of state Abridg'd his liberty; but to his person All honour hath been paid.

_Eup._ The righteous G.o.ds Have mark'd thy ways, and will in time repay Just retribution.

_Dio._ If to see your father, If here to meet him in a fond embrace, Will calm thy breast, and dry those beauteous tears, A moment more shall bring him to your presence.

_Eup._ Ha! lead him hither! Sir, to move him now, Aged, infirm, worn out with toil and years-- No, let me seek him rather--If soft pity Has touch'd your heart, oh! send me, send me to him.

_Dio._ Control this wild alarm; with prudent care Philotas shall conduct him; here I grant The tender interview.

_Eup._ Disastrous fate!

Ruin impends!--This will discover all!

I'll perish first. [_Aside._ Though much I languish to behold my father, Yet now it were not fit--the sun goes down; Night falls apace; soon as returning day--

_Dio._ This night, this very hour, you both must meet.

Together you may serve the state and me.

Thou seest the havoc of wide wasting war; And more, full well you know, are still to bleed.

Thou may'st prevent their fate.

_Eup._ Oh! give the means, And I will bless thee for it.

_Dio._ From a Greek Torments have wrung the truth. Thy husband, Phocion--

_Eup._ Oh! say, speak of my Phocion.

_Dio._ He; 'tis he Hath kindled up this war; with treacherous arts Inflam'd the states of Greece; and now the traitor Comes with a foreign aid to wrest my crown.

_Eup._ And does my Phocion share Timoleon's glory?