_Mel._ He, I fear to shock thee with the tale of horror! Perhaps he dies this moment.--Since Timoleon First form'd his lines round this beleagur'd city, No nutriment has touch'd Evander's lips. In the deep caverns of the rock imprison'd He pines in bitterest want. _Eup._ Well, my heart, Well do your vital drops forget to flow. _Mel._ Despair, alas! is all the sad resource Our fate allows us now. _Eup._ Yet, why despair? Is that the tribute to a father due? Blood is his due, Melanthon; yes, the blood, The vile, black blood, that fills the tyrant's veins, Would graceful look upon my dagger's point. Come, vengeance, come, shake off the feeble sex, Sinew my arm, and guide it to his heart. And thou, O filial piety, that rul'st My woman's breast, turn to vindictive rage; Assume the port of justice; show mankind Tyrannic guilt hath never dar'd in Syracuse, Beyond the reach of virtue. _Mel._ Moderate your zeal, Nor let him hear these transports of the soul, These wild upbraidings. _Eup._ Shall Euphrasia's voice Be hush'd to silence, when a father dies? Shall not the monster hear his deeds accurst? Shall he not tremble, when a daughter comes, Wild with her griefs, and terible with wrongs; Fierce in despair, all nature in her cause Alarm'd and rous'd with horror? Melanthon come; my wrongs will lend me force; The weakness of my sex is gone; this arm Feels tenfold strength; this arm shall do a deed For Heav'n and earth, for men and gods to wonder at! This arm shall vindicate a father's cause. ACT THE SECOND. SCENE I. _A wild romantic Scene amidst overhanging Rocks; a Cavern on one side._ _ARCAS, with a Spear in his Hand._ _Arcas._ The gloom of night sits heavy on the world; And o'er the solemn scene such stillness reigns, As 'twere a pause of nature; on the beach No murmuring billow breaks; the Grecian tents Lie sunk in sleep; no gleaming fires are seen; All Syracuse is hush'd; no stir abroad, Save ever and anon the dashing oar, That beats the sullen wave. And hark!--Was that The groan of anguish from Evander's cell, Piercing the midnight gloom?--It is the sound Of bustling prows, that cleave the briny deep. Perhaps at this dead hour Hamilcar's fleet Rides in the bay. _Enter PHILOTAS, from the Cavern._ _Phil._ What, ho! brave Arcas! ho! _Arcas._ Why thus desert thy couch? _Phil._ Methought the sound Of distant uproar chas'd affrighted sleep. _Arcas._ At intervals the oar's resounding stroke Comes echoing from the main. Save that report, A death-like silence through the wide expanse Broods o'er the dreary coast. _Phil._ Do thou retire, And seek repose; the duty of thy watch Is now perform'd; I take thy post. _Arcas._ How fares Your royal pris'ner? _Phil._ Arcas, shall I own A secret weakness? My heart inward melts To see that suffering virtue. On the earth, The cold, damp earth, the royal victim lies; And while pale famine drinks his vital spirit, He welcomes death, and smiles himself to rest. Oh! 'would I could relieve him!