Gods! do I hold her once again? Your mercies

Are without number.

[Falls on the Couch.

[

This excess of bliss

O'erpow'rs; it kills; Euphrasia—could I hope it?[Pg 23]

[Pg 23]

I die content—Art thou indeed my daughter?

Thou art; my hand is moisten'd with thy tears:

I pray you do not weep—thou art my child:

I thank you, gods! in my last dying moments

You have not left me—I would pour my praise;

But oh! your goodness overcomes me quite!

You read my heart; you see what passes there.

Eup. Alas, he faints! the gushing tide of transport

Bears down each feeble sense: restore him, Heaven!

Eva. All, my Euphrasia, all will soon be well.

Pass but a moment, and this busy globe,

Its thrones, its empires, and its bustling millions,

Will seem a speck in the great void of space.

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