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!

FIRST PRIEST.

Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasions fail,
More formidable terrors shall prevail.

[Exeunt CHALDEANS.

FIRST PROPHET.

Why, let them come! one good remains to cheer—
We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear.

SECOND PRIEST.

Air.

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.

ISRAELITISH WOMAN.

Recitative.

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.

Air.

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.

SECOND PRIEST.

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.

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.

FIRST PRIEST.

Recitative.

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.

Air.

O happy, who in happy hour
To God their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuming power,
Before they feel the blow.

SECOND 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 pride, your kingdom are no more!

Air.

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.