THE CAPTIVITY.

AN ORATORIO.*

[Written in 1764, and now printed from the original manuscript, in Goldsmith's handwriting, in the possession of Mr. Murray.—See Life, ch. xiv. 1

THE PERSONS.

First JEWISI PROPHET.
SECOND JEWSI PROPHET.
IsraelITISH WOMAN.
FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST.
SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND Virgixs,

SCENE. — The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon.

THE CAPTIVITY.

ACT I.--SCENE I.

ISRAELITES sitting on the Banks of the Euphrates.

First PROPHET.

Recitative.

Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep,
Where flows Euphrates, murmuring to the deep;
Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your

father and

your

friend; Insulted, chain'd, and all the world a foe, Our God alone is all we boast below.

a

First PROPHET.

Air.

Our God is all we boast below,

To him we turn our eyes ;
And every added weight of woe

Shall make our homage rise.

Second PROPHET.

And though no temple richly drest,

Nor sacrifice is here;
We'll make his temple in our breast,

And offer up a tear.

The first stanza repeated by the Chorus.

Second PROPHCT.

Recitative.

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 Jordan rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:
These hills how sweet! those plains how wond'rous fair ?
But sweeter still, when Heaven was with us there.

Air.

O Memory, thou fond deceiver !

Still importunate and vain ;
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain :

IIence, intruder, most distressing,

Seck the happy and the free;
The wretch who wants each other blessing,

Ever wants a friend in thee.

First PROPHET.

Recitative.

Yet, why complain? What, though by bonds confin'd,
Should bonds repress the vigor 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 impious folly rears her front on high?
No; rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our wishes soar.

Air.

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 crushid or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.

Second PROPHET.

Recitative.

But hush, my sons ! our tyrant lords are near;
The sound of barbarous mirth offends mine ear: