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

Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around,

How sweet those groves, that plain how wondrous fair,
How 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.

Hence intruder most distressing,
Seek the happy and the free:

The wretch who wants each other blessing,
Ever wants a friend in thee.

SECOND PROPHET.

RECITATIVE.

Yet why complain? 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 crushed, or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
FIRST PROPHET.

RECITATIVE.

But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near;
The sound of barbarous pleasure strikes mine ear.
Triumphant music floats along the vale;
Near, nearer still, gathers on the gale:

The growing sound their swift approach declares.
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
Enter CHALDEAN PRIESTS attended.

FIRST PRIEST.

AIR.

Come on, my companions, the triumph display,
Let rapture the minutes employ,

The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes in the joy.

SECOND PRIEST.

Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies:
Both similar blessings bestow;

The sun with his splendour illumines the skies,
And our monarch enlivens below.

AIR.

CHALDEAN WOMAN.

Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure ;
Love presents the fairest treasure:

Leave all other joys for me.

A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.
Or rather, love's delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising:

Wine shall bless the brave and free.