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!

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