Part 4 (1/2)

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 gus.h.i.+ng 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!