_Eva._ The blood but loiters in these frozen veins: Do you, whose youthful spirit glows with life, Do you go forth, and leave this mould'ring corpse. To me had Heav'n decreed a longer date, It ne'er had suffer'd a fell monster's reign, Nor let me see the carnage of my people. Farewell, Euphrasia; in one lov'd embrace To these remains pay the last obsequies, And leave me here to sink to silent dust. _Eup._ And will you, then, on self destruction bent, Reject my prayer, nor trust your fate with me. _Eva._ Trust thee, Euphrasia? Trust in thee, my child? Though life's a burden I could well lay down, Yet I will prize it, since bestow'd by thee. Oh! thou art good; thy virtue soars a flight For the wide world to wonder at; in thee, Hear it all nature, future ages hear it, The father finds a parent in his child. [_Exeunt._ ACT THE THIRD. SCENE I. _A Rampart near the Harbour._ _Enter DIONYSIUS._ _Dio._ Base deserters! Curse on their Punic faith! did they once dare To grapple with the Greek? Ere yet the main Was ting'd with blood, they turn'd their ships averse. May storms and tempests follow in their rear, And dash their fleet upon the Lybian shore! _Enter CALIPPUS._ _Cal._ My liege, Timoleon, where the harbour opens, Has storm'd the forts, and even now his fleet Pursues its course, and steers athwart the bay. _Dio._ Ruin impends; and yet, if fall it must, I bear a mind to meet it undismay'd, Unconquer'd ev'n by Fate. _Cal._ Through ev'ry street Despair and terror fly. A panic spreads From man to man, and superstition sees Jove arm'd with thunder, and the gods against us. _Dio._ With sacred rites their wrath must be appeas'd. Let instant victims at the altar bleed: Let incense roll its fragrant clouds to Heav'n, And pious matrons, and the virgin train, In slow procession to the temple bear The image of their gods. The solemn sacrifice, the virgin throng, Will gain the popular belief, and kindle In the fierce soldiery religious rage. Away, my friends, prepare the sacred rites. [_Exeunt CALIPPUS, &c._ Philotas, thou draw near: how fares your pris'ner? Has he yet breath'd his last? _Phil._ Life ebbs apace; To-morrow's sun sees him a breathless corse. _Dio._ Curse on his ling'ring pangs! Sicilia's crown No more shall deck his brow; and if the sand Still loiter in the glass, thy hand, my friend, May shake it thence. _Phil._ It shall, dread sir; that task Leave to thy faithful servant. _Dio._ Oh! Philotas, Thou little know'st the cares, the pangs of empire. The ermin'd pride, the purple that adorns A conqueror's breast, but serves, my friend, to hide A heart that's torn, that's mangled with remorse. Each object round me wakens horrid doubts; The flatt'ring train, the sentinel that guards me, The slave that waits, all give some new alarm, And from the means of safety dangers rise. Ev'n victory itself plants anguish here, And round my laurels the fell serpent twines.