FIRST PRIEST. _Recitative._ Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are passed, And our fix'd empire shall for ever last; In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe, In vain Rebellion aims her secret blow; Still shall our name and growing power be spread, And still our justice crush the traitor's head. _Air._ Coeval with man Our empire began, And never shall fall Till ruin shakes all. When ruin shakes all, Then shall Babylon fall. FIRST PROPHET. _Recitative._ 'Tis thus that Pride triumphant rears the head;— A little while, and all their power is fled. 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! _Air._ 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. SECOND PROPHET. 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? ISRAELITISH WOMAN. _Air._ 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.