lace,
When hence your husband, the brave Phocion, fled,
Fled with your infant son!

_Eup._ In duty fixed,
Here I remain'd, while my brave, gen'rous Phocion,
Fled with my child, and from his mother's arms
Bore my sweet little one. Full well thou know'st
The pangs I suffer'd in that trying moment.
Did I not weep? Did I not rave and shriek,
And by the roots tear my dishevell'd hair?
Did I not follow to the sea-beat shore,
Resolv'd with him, and with my blooming boy,
To trust the winds and waves?

_Mel._ Deem not, Euphrasia,
I e'er can doubt thy constancy and love.

_Eup._ Melanthon, how I loved, the gods, who saw
Each secret image that my fancy form'd,
The gods can witness how I lov'd my Phocion,
And yet I went not with him. Could I do it?
Could I desert my father? Could I leave
The venerable man, who gave me being,
A victim here in Syracuse, nor stay
To watch his fate, to visit his affliction,
To cheer his prison hours, and with the tear
Of filial virtue bid ev'n bondage smile?

_Mel._ The pious act, whate'er the fates intend,
Shall merit heartfelt praise.

_Eup._ Yes, Phocion, go,
Go with my child, torn from this matron breast,
This breast that still should yield its nurture to him,
Fly with my infant to some happier shore,
If he be safe, Euphrasia dies content.
Till that sad close of all, the task be mine
To tend a father with delighted care,
To smooth the pillow of declining age,
See him sink gradual into mere decay,
On the last verge of life watch ev'ry look,
Explore each fond unutterable wish,
Catch his last breath, and close his eyes in peace.

_Mel._ I would not add to my afflictions; yet
My heart misgives; Evander's fatal period----

_Eup._ Still is far off; the gods have sent relief,
And once again I shall behold him king.

_Mel._ Alas! those glitt'ring hopes but lend a ray
To gild the clouds, that hover o'er your head,
Soon to rain sorrow down, and plunge you deeper
In black despair.

_Eup._ The spirit-stirring virtue,
That glows within me, ne'er shall know despair.
No, I will trust the gods. Desponding man!
Hast thou not heard with what resistless ardour
Timoleon drives the tumult of the war?
Hast thou not heard him thund'ring at our gates?
The tyrant's pent up in his last retreat;
Anon thou'lt see his battlements in dust,
His walls, his ramparts, and his tow'rs in ruin;
Destruction pouring in on ev'ry side,
Pride and oppression at their utmost need,
And nought to save him in his h