FIRST JEWISH PROPHET.
SECOND JEWISH PROPHET,
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST.
SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
SCENE. THE BANKS OF THE RIVER EUPHRATES, NEAR BABYLON.
Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend.
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
FIRST PROPHET.
Our God is all we boast below, To him we turn our eyes; And every added weight of woe Shall make our homage rise.
SECOND PROPHET.
And though no temple richly dressed,
Nor sacrifice are here;
We'll make his temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
[The first Stanza repeated by the CHORUS.
That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dressed in flowery pride,
Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide,
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd,
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around,
How sweet those groves, that plain how wondrous
fair,
How doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there!
O memory, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain.
Hence intruder most distressing,
Seek the happy and the free:
The wretch who wants each other blessing, Ever wants a friend in thee.
Yet why complain? What though by bonds confined,
Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol worship free?
Are not this very morn those feasts begun
Where prostrate error hails the rising sun?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane?
And should we mourn? Should coward virtue fly,
When vaunting folly lifts her head on high?
No; rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar.
The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end;
The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain:
As aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But crush'd, or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near,
The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ea:;
Triumphant music floats along the vale,
Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale;
The growing sound their swift approach declares
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
Enter CHALDEAN PRIESTS attended.
FIRST PRIEST.
Come on, my companions, the triumph display, Let rapture the minutes employ
The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes in the joy.
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain,
Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain?
No, never. May this hand forget each art
That wakes to finest joys the human heart,
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture sup- Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear
A pallid corse, and rest the body there.
Alas! too well mine eyes indignant trace
The last remains of Judah's royal race.
Fall'n is our King, and all our fears are o'er,
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more.
Ye wretches who by fortune's hate
In want and sorrow groan,
Come ponder his severer fate,
And learn to bless your own.
FIRST PROPHET.
You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend;
Like yours, his life began in pride,
Like his, your lives shall end.
Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare,
Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair!
And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe,
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low?
How long, how long, Almighty God of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall!
As panting flies the hunted hind,
Where brooks refreshing stray;
And rivers through the valley wind,
That stop the hunter's way.
Thus we, O Lord, alike distressed,
For streams of mercy long;
Streams which cheer the sore oppressed.
And overwhelm the strong.
Serve them as they have served the just,
And let thy will be done.
All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails,
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails.
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along,—
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong!
Save us, O Lord! to Thee, though late, we pray;
And give repentance but an hour's delay.
FIRST AND SECOND PRIEST
O happy, who in happy hour
To God their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuming power
Before they feel the blow!
SECOND PROPHET.
Now, now's our time! ye wretches bold and blind,
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind,
Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before,
Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom are no
O Lucifer, thou son of morn,
Of Heaven alike and man the foe;
Heaven, men and all,
Now press thy fall,
And sink thee lowest of the low.
O Babylon, how art thou fallen!
Thy fall more dreadful from delay!
Thy streets forlorn
To wilds shall turn,
Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey.
Such be her fate. But hark! how from afar
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war!
Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand,
But whence that shout? Good heavens amaze- And this way leads his formidable band.
ment all!
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