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And fiercely shed intolerable day;

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;

Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from their native walks away;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

Hang round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for her father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief,
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O luxury thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!

Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,

Boast of a florid vigour not their own:

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
E'en now the devastation is begun,

And half the business of destruction done;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry! thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade :
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride:
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;

Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

THE CAPTIVITY.

AN ORATORIO.

THE PERSONS.

FIRST JEWISH PROPHET.

SECOND JEWISH PROPHET.

ISRAELITISH WOMAN.

FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST.

SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.

CHALDEAN WOMAN.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

SCENE-The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon.

ACT I.

ISRAELITES sitting on the Banks of the Euphrates.

FIRST PROPHET.
Recitative."

Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep;
Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend,
And turn to God, your Father and your Friend:
Insulted, chained, and all the world our foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.

Chorus of Prophets.

Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.

And though no temple richly drest,

Nor sacrifice is here;

We'll make his temple in our breast,

And offer up a tear.

[The first stanza repeated by the CHORUS

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ISRAELITISH WOMAN.

Recitative.

That strain once more! it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride;
Ye plains, where Kedron rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;

Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:

Those groves how sweet! those plains how wondrous fair! But doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there.

Air.

O memory, thou fond deceiver!

Still importunate and vain;

To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain;

Thou, like the world, the oppressed oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;

And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

SECOND PROPHET.

Recitative.

Yet, why repine? What, though by bonds confined,
Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
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 spirits soar.

Air.

The triumphs that on vice attend

Shall ever in confusion end;

The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain:

As aromatic plants bestow

No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But crush'd or trodden to the ground,.
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.

FIRST PROPHET.

Recitative.

But hush, my sons! our tyrant lords are near;

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