ACT THE FIRST.
FIRST PROPHET.
Recitative.
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.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Our God is all we boast below,
To Him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise:
And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice is here—
We’ll make His temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
That strain once more! it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dress’d in flowery pride;
Ye plains, where Jordan rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown’d;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:
These hills how sweet! those plains how wondrous fair
But sweeter still, when Heaven was with us there!
Air.
O Memory! thou fond deceiver!
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;
Thou, like the world, the oppress’d oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch’s woe!
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.
FIRST PROPHET.
Recitative.
Yet, why repine? What, though by bonds confin’d,
Should bonds enslave 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.
Air.
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.
SECOND PROPHET.
Recitative.
But, hush, my sons! our tyrant lords are near—
The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear;
Triumphant music floats along the vale—
Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale:
The growing note their swift approach declares—
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
Enter Chaldean Priests, attended.
FIRST PRIEST.
Air.
Come on, my companions, the triumphs display,
Let rapture the minutes employ;
The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes of the joy.
SECOND PRIEST.
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies;
Both similar blessings bestow:
The sun with his splendour illumines the skies;
And our monarch enlivens below.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
Air.
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure;
Love presents the fairest treasure;
Leave all other sports for me.
CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.
Or rather, Love’s delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising;
Wine shall bless the brave and free.
FIRST PRIEST.
Wine and beauty thus inviting,
Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline?
SECOND PRIEST.
I’ll waste no longer thought in choosing,
But, neither love nor wine refusing,
I’ll make them both together mine.
Recitative.
But whence, when joy should brighten o’er the land,
This sullen gloom in Judah’s captive band?
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung?
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung?
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
The day demands it; sing us Sion’s song,
Dismiss your griefs, and join our tuneful choir;
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre?
SECOND PROPHET.
Chain’d as we are, the scorn of all mankind,
To want, to toil, and every ill consign’d—
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,
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth!
FIRST PRIEST.
Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasion fail,
More formidable terrors shall prevail.
FIRST PROPHET.
Why, let them come; one good remains to cheer—
We fear the Lord, and know no other fear.
[Exeunt Chaldeans.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Can chains or tortures bend the mind
On God’s supporting breast reclin’d?
Stand fast,—and let our tyrants see
That fortitude is victory.
[Exeunt.