ACT THE THIRD.
Scene, as before.
FIRST PRIEST.
Recitative.
Yes, my companions, Heaven’s decrees are past,
And our fix’d empire shall for ever last:
In vain the madd’ning prophet threatens woe—
In vain Rebellion aims her secret blow;
Still shall our name and growing power be spread,
And still our justice crush the traitor’s head.
Air.
Coeval with man
Our empire began,
And never shall fall,
Till ruin shakes all;
With the ruin of all,
Then shall Babylon fall.
FIRST PROPHET.
Recitative.
’Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head—
A little while, and all her power is fled.
But, ha! what means yon sadly plaintive train,
That onward slowly bends along the plain?
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.
Air.
Ye wretches who, by fortune’s hate,
In want and sorrow groan—
Come, ponder his severer fate,
And learn to bless your own.
Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend;
Like yours, his life began in pride;
Like his, your lives may end.
SECOND PROPHET.
Recitative.
Behold his wretched corse, with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs which shook with ghastly glare,
Those ill-becoming 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 Lord of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall!
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
Air.
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 distrest,
For streams of mercy long;
Streams which can cheer the sore-opprest,
And overwhelm the strong.
FIRST PROPHET.
Recitative.
But, whence that shout? Good heavens! Amazement all!
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall:
Behold, an army covers all the ground;
’Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round:
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along—
How low the great, how feeble are the strong!
And now, behold, the battlements recline—
O God of hosts, the victory is Thine!
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust—
Thy vengeance be begun;
Serve her as she hath serv’d the just:
And let Thy will be done.
FIRST PRIEST.
Recitative.
All, all is lost! The Syrian army fails;
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails!
Save us, O Lord! to Thee, though late, we pray;
And give repentance but an hour’s delay.
SECOND PRIEST.
Air.
Thrice happy, who in happy hour
To Heaven their praise bestow,
And own His all-consuming power
Before they feel the blow!
FIRST PROPHET.
Recitative.
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 more!
Air.
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.
FIRST PROPHET.
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!
SECOND PROPHET.
Recitative.
Such be her fate! But, hark! how from afar
The clarion’s note proclaims the finish’d war!
Cyrus, our great restorer, is at hand,
And this way leads his formidable band.
Now give your songs of Zion to the wind,
And hail the benefactor of mankind:
He comes, pursuant to Divine decree,
To chain the strong, and set the captive free.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Rise to raptures past expressing,
Sweeter from remember’d woes;
Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing,
Comes to give the world repose.
CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Cyrus comes, the world redressing,
Love and pleasure in his train;
Comes to heighten every blessing,
Comes to soften every pain.
SEMI-CHORUS.
Hail to him, with mercy reigning,
Skill’d in every peaceful art;
Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining,
Only binds the willing heart.
THE LAST CHORUS.
But chief to Thee, our God, our Father, Friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity;
O Thou, without beginning, without end—
Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee!
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON
AN EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Ne’er rang’d in a forest, or smok’d in a platter:
The haunch was a picture for painters to study—
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;—
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They’d as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold—let me pause—Don’t I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it’s no bounce: I protest in my turn,
It’s a truth—and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.[8]
To go on with my tale—as I gaz’d on the Haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch—
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik’d best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
’Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe’s[9]—
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when:
There’s Coley,[10] and Williams, and H——rth, and Hiff—
I think they love ven’son—I know they love beef;
There’s my countryman, Higgins—Oh! let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But, hang it—to poets, who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton ’s a very good treat;
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt,
It’s like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call’d himself, enter’d;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil’d as he look’d at the venison and me.
“What have we got here?—Why, this is good eating!
Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting?”
“Why, whose should it be, sir?” cried I, with a flounce;
“I get these things often”—but that was a bounce:
“Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleas’d to be kind—but I hate ostentation.”
“If that be the case, then,” cried he, very gay,
“I’m glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me:
No words—I insist on’t—precisely at three.
We’ll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I’d ask my Lord Clare.
And now that I think on’t, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you?—a pasty?—it shall, and it must;
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter!—this venison with me to Mile End;
No stirring, I beg—my dear friend—my dear friend!”
Thus snatching his hat, he brush’d off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow’d behind.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And “nobody with me at sea but myself;”[11]
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never dislik’d in my life—
Though clogg’d with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife;
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine,
(A chair-lumber’d closet, just twelve feet by nine)—
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
“For I knew it,” he cried, “both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t’ other with Thrale.
But no matter, I’ll warrant we’ll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
They ’re both of them merry, and authors, like you;
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna—he owns to Panurge.”
While thus he describ’d them by trade and by name,
They enter’d, and dinner was serv’d as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty—was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it’s my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round.
But what vex’d me most was that d—d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue;
And, “Madam,” quoth he, “may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on:
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,
But I’ve eat of your tripe till I’m ready to burst.”
“The tripe,” quoth the Jew, “if the truth I may speak,
I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week;
I like these here dinners so pretty and small—
But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.”
“Oh, oh!” quoth my friend, “he’ll come on in a trice—
He’s keeping a corner for something that’s nice.
There’s a Pasty”—“A Pasty!” repeated the Jew;
“I don’t care if I keep a corner for ’t too.”
“What the De’il, mon, a Pasty!” re-echoed the Scot;
“Though splitting, I’ll still keep a corner for that.”
“We’ll all keep a corner,” the lady cried out;
“We’ll all keep a corner,” was echo’d about.
While thus we resolv’d, and the Pasty delay’d,
With looks that quite petrified, enter’d the maid;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak’d Priam, in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out—for who could mistake her?—
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus—but let similes drop—
And now that I think on’t, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it’s but labour misplac’d,
To send such good verses to one of your taste.
You’ve got an odd something—a kind of discerning—
A relish—a taste—sicken’d over by learning;
At least, it’s your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that’s your own;
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.