But, ah! what means yon sadly plaintive train,
That this way slowly bend 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:
Fallen is our king, and all our fears are o'er,
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more!
Ye wretches, who by fortune's hate
In want and sorrow groan,
Come, ponder his severer fate,
And learn to bless your own.
You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend:
Like yours, his life began in pride;
Like his, your lives shall end.
Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs with ponderous fetters torn ;
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare,
Those unbecoming 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 God of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall?
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 distress'd,
For streams of mercy long:
Those streams which cheer the sore oppress'd,
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, destruction 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 CAPTIVES.
Down with them, Lord to lick the dust!
Thy vengeance be begun:
Serve them as they have served the just,
And let thy will be done.
All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails;
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails!
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along,-
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong!
Save us, O Lord! to thee, though late, we pray,
And give repentance but an hour's delay.
FIRST AND SECOND PRIESTS.
O happy, who in happy hour
To God their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuming power,
Before they feel the blow.
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 pride, your kingdom are no more!
O Lucifer, thou son of morn,
Alike of Heaven and man the foe,
Heaven, men, and all,
Now press thy fall,
And sink thee lowest of the low.
FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV., AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.
[Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St. James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him. His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He was called on for retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the following poem.]
Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord' supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish.
Our Dean' shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burkes shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavour,
And Dicks with his pepper shall heighten the savour;
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas' is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge' is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey's" a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various-at such a repast
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine! let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table,
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the poet, and the friends he has characterised in poem, occasionally dined.
Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland.
3 The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, member for Bedwin, and afterwards holding office in India.
5 Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada; afterwards Recorder of Bristol.
Richard Cumberland, Esq., author of the "West-Indian," "Fashionable Lover," "The Brothers," Calvary," &c., &c.
Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor (afterwards Bishop of Salisbury), an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's "History of the Popes." 9 Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish Bar. An eminent attorney.
David Garrick, Esq. 10 Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth :
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt;
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out ;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That Sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend' to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 't was his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,-
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home :
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none :
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb2
Now wrangling and grumbling, to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick ;
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
Mr. Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
• Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having fractured an arm and a leg at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these accidents, as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.
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