No spicy fragrance while they grow;

But crush'd or trodden to the ground,

Diffuse their balmy sweets around.

FIRST 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 sound their swift approach declares;—