in his camp:--dispel thy fears;
The gods once more will give him to thy arms.

_Eup._ My father lives sepulchred ere his time,
Here in Eudocia's tomb; let me conduct thee.

_Phoc._ I came this moment thence.

_Eup._ And saw Evander?

_Phoc._ Alas! I found him not.

_Eup._ Not found him there?--
And have they then--Have the fell murderers--Oh!

[_Faints away._

_Phoc._ I've been too rash; revive, my love, revive;
Thy Phocion calls; the gods will guard Evander,
And save him to reward thy matchless virtue.

_Enter EVANDER and MELANTHON._

_Eva._ Lead me, Melanthon; guide my aged steps;
Where is he? let me see him.

_Phoc._ My Euphrasia;
Thy father lives;--thou venerable man!
Behold!--I cannot fly to thy embrace.

_Eup._ These agonies must end me--ah, my father!
Again I have him, gracious pow'rs! again
I clasp his hand, and bathe it with my tears.

_Eva._ Euphrasia!--Phocion, too!--Yes, both are here!
Oh, let me thus, thus strain you to my heart.

_Phoc._ Protected by a daughter's tender care,
By my Euphrasia sav'd! That sweet reflection
Exalts the bliss to rapture.

_Eup._ Why, my father,
Why thus adventure forth! The strong alarm
O'erwhelm'd my spirits.

_Eva._ I went forth, my child,
When all was dark, and awful silence round,
To throw me prostrate at the altar's foot,
And crave the care of Heav'n for thee and thine.
Melanthon there----

_Enter PHILOTAS._

_Phil._ Inevitable ruin hovers o'er you:
The tyrant's fury mounts into a blaze;
Unsated yet with blood, he calls aloud
For thee, Evander! thee his rage hath order'd
This moment to his presence.

_Eva._ Lead me to him:
His presence hath no terror for Evander.

_Eup._ Horror! It must not be.

_Phil._ No, never, never:
I'll perish rather! But the time demands
Our utmost vigour. His policy has granted
A day's suspense from arms; yet even now
His troops prepare, in the dead midnight hour,
With base surprise to storm Timoleon's camp.

_Eva._ And doth he grant a false insidious truce,
To turn the hour of peace to blood and horror?

_Eup._ I know the monster well: when specious seeming
Becalms his looks, the rankling heart within
Teems with destruction.

_Mel._ Now, Phocion, now, on thee our hope depends.
Fly to Timoleon; I can grant a passport:
Rouse him to vengeance; on the tyrant turn
His own insidious arts, or all is lost.

_Phoc._ Evander thou, and thou, my best Euphrasia,
Both shall attend my flight.

_Mel._ It were in vai