In England prejudice was still so strong that as late as 1783 we find the Jews excluded from the benefit of the Irish Naturalisation Act, passed that year. Yet there appears a faint reflection of Lessing’s teaching in some of the writings which bring the century to a close. Richard Cumberland, the friend of Burke and Reynolds, Garrick and Goldsmith, banteringly eulogized by the last-named author as “the Terence of England, the mender of hearts,” wrote, in collaboration with Burgess, the _Exodiad_, a long epic, consisting of eight dull books, wherein the two bards sing the deliverance of Israel from Egypt and their journey through the desert. The work begins, after the fashion of epics, with the orthodox invocation of the Muse in a single breathless period: “Of Israel, by Jehovah’s mighty power From long captivity redeem’d, with loss And total overthrow of Egypt’s host, What time the chosen servant of the Lord From Goshen to the land of promise led Through the divided sea the ransom’d tribes, Sing, heavenly Muse, and prop those mortal powers, Which but for thy sustaining aid must sink Under the weight of argument so vast, Scenes so majestic, subject so sublime.” It ends with a parting speech from Moses at the point of death: “‘My ministry is finish’d; in thine hands, Blest of the Lord, O Joshua! I have put The book of life, and in thine arms expire.’ He ceas’d, and instantly the hand of death Press’d on his heart and stopp’d its vital pulse; His eye-lids dropt upon their sightless balls: One deep-drawn sigh dismiss’d his parting soul; To heaven it rose; his body sank to earth, And God’s archangel guarded his remains.” In charming contrast to this portentous rhapsody stands Goldsmith’s own tender oratorio, _The Captivity_. It deals with the sons of Israel in exile, working and weeping on the banks of the Euphrates; yet keeping their hearts turned longingly to the fields of Sharon, the plains of Kedron, the cedar-clad hills of Lebanon, and Zion. “Insulted, chained, and all the world their foe,” the captives nourish their faith in the God of their fathers: “Our God is all we boast below, To him we turn our eyes; And every added weight of woe Shall make our homage rise.” Thus sings the chorus of Prophets in Exile. Yet, even in the midst of their woes, they see cause for pride and self-glorification: They are the only worshippers of the true God; the rest of the world worships idle idols: “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 spirit soar.”