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!
Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasions fail,
More formidable terrors shall prevail.
Why, let them come! one good remains to cheer-
We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear.
Fierce is the whirlwind howling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And fierce the tempest rolling
Along the furrow'd main;
But storms that fly
To rend the sky,
Every ill presaging,
Less dreadful show
To worlds below
Than angry monarch's raging.
Ah, me! what angry terrors round us grow;
How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow!
Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth,
Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth!
Ah! let us one, one little hour obey ;
To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away.
Fatigued with life, yet loth to part,
On Hope the wretch relies;
And every blow that sinks the heart
Bids the deluder rise.
Hope, like the taper's gleamy light,
Adorn's the wretch's way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
Why this delay? At length for joy prepare ;
I read your looks, and see compliance there.
Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise:
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies.
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre;
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire.
Then let us, providently wise,
Seize the debtor ere it flies.
Think not to-morrow can repay
The debt of pleasure lost to-day;
Alas! to-morrow's richest store
Can but pay its proper score.
But, hush! See, foremost of the captive choir,
The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre.
Mark where he sits, with executing art,
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart.
See how prophetic rapture fills his form,
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm;
And now his voice, accordant to the string,
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing.
From north, from south, from east, from west,
Conspiring nations come;
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast,
Blasphemers, all be dumb.
The tempest gathers all around,
On Babylon it lies;
Down with her! down-down to the ground!
She sinks, she groans, she dies.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust,
Ere yonder setting sun;
Serve her as she has served the just!
'Tis fix'd-it shall be done.
No more! When slaves thus insolent presume, The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom.
Unthinking wretches! have not you and all
Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall?
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes,
See where dethroned your captive monarch lies
Deprived of sight and rankling in his chain,
See where he mourns his friends and children slain.
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind
More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined.
CHORUS OF ALL.
Arise, all potent Ruler, rise,
And vindicate thy people's cause :
Till every tongue in every land
Shall offer up unfeigned applause.
Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are passed,
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,
Coeval with man
Our empire began,
And never shall fall
Till ruin shakes all.
When ruin shakes all,
Then shall Babylon fall.
'Tis thus that Pride triumphant rears the head;A little while, and all their power is fled.
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