I’ll waste no longer thought in choosing, But, neither love nor wine refusing, I’ll make them both together mine. _Recitative._ 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 tuneful choir; For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre? SECOND PROPHET. 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? No, never! May this hand forget each art That wakes to finest joys the human heart, Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth! FIRST PRIEST. Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasion fail, More formidable terrors shall prevail. FIRST PROPHET. Why, let them come; one good remains to cheer-- We fear the Lord, and know no other fear. [_Exeunt_ CHALDEANS. CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. Can chains or tortures bend the mind On God’s supporting breast reclin’d? Stand fast,--and let our tyrants see That fortitude is victory. [_Exeunt._ ACT THE SECOND. _Air._ CHORUS OF PRIESTS. O Peace of Mind, angelic guest! Thou soft companion of the breast! Dispense thy balmy store; Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, Till earth, receding from our eyes, Shall vanish as we soar. FIRST PRIEST. _Recitative._ No more! Too long has justice been delay’d-- The king’s commands must fully be obey’d; Compliance with his will your peace secures-- Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. But if, rebellious to his high command, You spurn the favours offer’d at his hand-- Think, timely think, what ills remain behind; Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. SECOND PRIEST. Fierce is the tempest rolling Along the furrow’d main, And fierce the whirlwind howling, O’er Afric’s sandy plain: But storms that fly To rend the sky, Every ill presaging-- Less dreadful show To world’s below, Than angry monarch’s raging. [Illustration] ISRAELITISH WOMAN. _Recitative._ Ah, me! what angry terrors round us grow! How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten’d blow! Ye prophets, skill’d in Heaven’s eternal truth, Forgive my sex’s fears, forgive my youth, If shrinking thus, when frowning power appears, I wish for life, and yield me to my fears. Ah! let us one, one little hour obey; To-morrow’s tears may wash the stain away. _Air._ The wretch condemn’d with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise.