Yes, my companions, Heaven’s decrees are past, 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; With the ruin of all, Then shall Babylon fall. FIRST PROPHET. _Recitative._ ’Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head-- A little while, and all her power is fled. But, ha! what means yon sadly plaintive train, That onward slowly bends 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: Fall’n 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. Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, Awhile the bliss suspend; Like yours, his life began in pride; Like his, your lives may end. SECOND PROPHET. _Recitative._ Behold his wretched corse, with sorrow worn, His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn; Those eyeless orbs which shook with ghastly glare, Those ill-becoming 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 Lord of all, Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall! [Illustration] 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 distrest, For streams of mercy long; Streams which can cheer the sore-opprest, 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, the torrent 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 ISRAELITES. Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust-- Thy vengeance be begun; Serve her as she hath 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! Save us, O Lord! to Thee, though late, we pray; And give repentance but an hour’s delay. SECOND PRIEST. _Air._ Thrice happy, who in happy hour To Heaven their praise bestow, And own His all-consuming power Before they feel the blow! FIRST PROPHET. _Recitative._