’Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head, A little while, and all their power is fled; But ha! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 15 That this way slowly bend along the plain? And now, methinks, to yonder bank they bear A palled corse, and rest the body there. Alas! too well mine eyes indignant trace The last remains of Judah’s royal race: 20 Our monarch falls, and now 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, 25 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. 30 SECOND PROPHET. RECITATIVE. Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn, His squalid limbs with pond’rous fetters torn; Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare, Those ill-becoming rags—that matted hair! And shall not Heaven for this its terrors show, 35 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; 40 And rivers through the valley wind, That stop the hunter’s way: Thus we, O Lord, alike distrest, For streams of mercy long; Those streams which cheer the sore opprest, 45 And overwhelm the strong. FIRST PROPHET. RECITATIVE. But, whence that shout? Good heavens! amazement all! See yonder tower just nodding to the fall: See where an army covers all the ground, Saps the strong wall, and pours destruction round; 50 The ruin smokes, destruction pours along; How low the great, how feeble are the strong! The foe prevails, the lofty walls recline— O God of hosts, the victory is thine! CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust; 55 Thy vengeance be begun: Serve them as they have serv’d the just, And let thy will be done. FIRST PRIEST. RECITATIVE. All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails, Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails, 60 The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along; How low the proud, how feeble are the strong! Save us, O Lord! to thee, though late, we pray, And give repentance but an hour’s delay. FIRST AND SECOND PRIEST. AIR. Thrice happy, who in happy hour 65 To Heaven their praise bestow, And own his all-consuming power Before they feel the blow! FIRST PROPHET. RECITATIVE.