Every moment, as it flows,
Some peculiar pleasure owes;
Then let us, providently wise,
Seize the debtor as it flies.
Think not to-morrow can repay
The pleasures that we lose to-day;
To-morrow's most unbounded store
Can but pay its proper score.
But hush! see, foremost of the captive choir,
The master prophet grasps his full-toned lyre;
Mark where he sits, with executing art,
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart.
See, inspiration fills his rising form,
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm!
And now his voice, accordant to the string,
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing.
From north, from south, from east, from west,
Conspiring foes shall come;
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast,
Blasphemers, all be dumb.
The tempest gathers all around,
On Babylon it lies;
Down with her! down-down to the ground:
She sinks, she groans, she dies.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust,
Ere yonder setting sun;
Serve her as she has served the just:
'Tis fixed it shall be done.
Enough! when slaves thus insolent presume,
The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom.
Short-sighted wretches! have not you and all
Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall?
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes
Mark where dethroned your captive monarch lies;
Deprived of sight, and rankling in his chain,
He calls on Death to terminate his pain.
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind
More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined.
Arise, all-potent Ruler, rise,
And vindicate thy people's cause,
Till every tongue, in every land,
Shall offer up unfeigned applause.
FIRST PRIEST, RECITATIVE.
Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are past.
And our fixed empire shall forever last:
In vain the maddening prophet threatens woe,
In vain Rebellion aims her secret blow :
Still shall our fame and growing power be spread,
And still our vengeance crush the guilty head.
'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 this way slowly bends along the plain?
And now, methinks, a pallid corse they bear
To yonder bank, and rest the body there.
Alas! too well mine eyes observant trace
The last remains of Judah's royal race:
Our monarch falls, and now our fears are o'er,.
The wretched Zedekiah is no more!
Ye wretches who by fortune's hate
In want and sorrow groan
Come, ponder his severer fate,
And learn to bless your own.
Ye sons, from fortune's lap supplied,
A while the bliss suspend;
Like yours, his life began in pride
Like his, your lives may end.
Behold his squalid corse with sorrow worn,
His wretched limbs with ponderous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare,
Those ill-becoming robes, and matted hair.
And shall not Heaven for this its terrors show,
And deal its angry vengeance on the foe?
How long, how long, Almighty Lord of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall!
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 distressed,
For streams of mercy long;
Those streams that cheer the sore-oppressed,
And overwhelm the strong.
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 walls, and pours destruction round!
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!
Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust-
Thy vengeance be begun;
Serve them as they have served the just,
And let thy will be done.
All, all is lost! The Syrian army fails;
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails!
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.
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.
Now, now 's our time! ye wretches bold and blind,
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind,
Too late you seek that power unsought before ---
Your wealth, your pride, your kingdom, are no more!
O Lucifer! thou son of morn,
Alike of Heaven and man the foe,
Heaven, men, and all,
Now press thy fall,
And sink thee lowest of the low.
O Babylon, how art thou fallen!
Thy fall more dreadful from delay!
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