But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.'
SONG.-BY A WOMAN.-PASTORALE.
With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May
No more will her crook or her temples adorn;
For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is removed, and shall never return?
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.
On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.
Chorus of Youths and Virgins.
SCENE-The Banks of the River Euphrates near Babylon.
ACT THE FIRST.
FIRST PROPHET.
YE captive tribes that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
Suspend your woes a while, the task suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend:
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
Our God is all we boast below
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of wo
Shall make our homage rise.
And though no temple richly dress'd,
Nor sacrifice is here,
We'll make his temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
[The first stanza repeated by the CHORUS.
This was first printed from the original, in Dr. Goldsmith's own hand-writing, in the 8vo. edition of his Miscellaneous Works, pub Ushed in 1820.
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! that plain how wondrous
fair!
How 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.
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
Enter CHALDEAN PRIESTS attended.
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.
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?
Ill 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?
very moment as it flows
Some peculiar pleasure owes:
Come, then, 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.
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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