Chapter 2

_Israelites sitting on the Banks of the Euphrates._

FIRST PROPHET.

RECITATIVE.

YE captive tribes, that hourly work and weep Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep, Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend, And turn to God, your Father and your Friend. Insulted, chain’d, and all the world a foe, 5 Our God alone is all we boast below.

FIRST PROPHET.

AIR.

Our God is all we boast below, To him we turn our eyes; And every added weight of woe Shall make our homage rise. 10

SECOND PROPHET.

And though no temple richly drest, Nor sacrifice is here; We’ll make his temple in our breast, And offer up a tear. [_The first stanza repeated by the Chorus._

SECOND PROPHET.

RECITATIVE.

That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise, 15 And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes. Ye fields of Sharon, dress’d in flow’ry pride, Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide, Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown’d, Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, 20 These hills how sweet! Those plains how wond’rous 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, 25 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. 30

FIRST PROPHET.

RECITATIVE.

Yet, why complain? What, though by bonds confin’d, 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? 35 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 impious folly rears her front on high? 40 No; rather let us triumph still the more, And as our fortune sinks, our wishes soar.

AIR.

The triumphs that on vice attend Shall ever in confusion end; The good man suffers but to gain, 45 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. 50

SECOND PROPHET.

RECITATIVE.

But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near; The sounds of barb’rous 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;— 55 Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.

_Enter_ CHALDEAN PRIESTS _attended._

FIRST PRIEST.

AIR.

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. 60

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.

A CHALDEAN WOMAN.

AIR.

Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure; 65 Love presents the fairest treasure, Leave all other joys for me.

A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.

Or rather, Love’s delights despising, Haste to raptures ever rising Wine shall bless the brave and free. 70

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 this nor that refusing, 75 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? 80 Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along, The day demands it; sing us Sion’s song. Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir, For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre?

SECOND PROPHET.

Bow’d down with chains, the scorn of all mankind, 85 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 speeds the power of music to the heart, 90 Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, Or join with sounds profane its sacred mirth!

FIRST PRIEST.

Insulting slaves! If gentler methods fail, The whips and angry tortures shall prevail. [_Exeunt Chaldeans_

FIRST PROPHET.

Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer; 95 We fear the Lord, and know no other fear.

CHORUS.

Can whips or tortures hurt the mind On God’s supporting breast reclin’d? Stand fast, and let our tyrants see That fortitude is victory. [_Exeunt._