While thus we resolved, and the Pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified enter'd the maid;
A visage so sad and so pale with affright
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out-for who could mistake her?-
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven!
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And, now that I think on 't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplaced
To send such good verses to one of your taste:
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.
SCENE-The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon.
That strain once more! it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride;
Ye plains, where Kedron rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:
How sweet those groves! those plains how wondrous fair!
But doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there.
O Memory, thou fond deceiver!
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
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.
SECOND PROPHET.
Recitative.
Yet, why complain? What though by bonds confined,
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,
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 vaunting Folly lifts her head on high?
No! rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar.
The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end:
The good man suffers but to gain,
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.
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 ;-
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
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.
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure,
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.
Wine and beauty thus inviting,
Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline?
I'll waste no longer thought in choosing;
But neither this nor that refusing,
I'll make them both together mine.
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?
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!
Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind,
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?
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