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And now his voice, accordant to the string,
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing.


From north, from south, from east, from west,

Conspiring nations 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 serv'd the just !
'T is fix'd - it shall be done.


No more! when slaves thus insolent presume,
The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom.
Unthinking wretches! have not you and all,
Beheld our power in Zedekiah’s fall?
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes;
See where dethron'd your captive monarch lies,
Depriv’d of sight and rankling in his chain;
See where he mourns his friends and children slain.
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind
More pondrous chains, and dungeons more confin'd.

Chorus of All.
Arise, all potent ruler, rise,

And vindicate thy people's cause;
Till every tongue


Shall offer up unfeign'd applause.

(Exeunt. Goldsmith.


Scene as before.

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 fame and growing power be spread,
And still our vengeance crush the traitor's head.

Coeval with man
Our empire began,
And never shall fall
Till ruin shakes all :
When ruin shakes all
Then shall Babylon fall.


'Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head,
A little while, and all their power is fled;
But ha! what means yon sadly plaintive train,
That this way slowly bend along the plain?
And now, methinks, 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:
Our monarch falls, and now our fears are o'er,
Unhappy 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.

You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide

Awhile the bliss suspend;
Like yours, his life began in pride,
Like his, your lives shall end.

Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs with ponderous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare,
These ill-becoming rags that matted hair.
And shall not Heaven for this its terrors show,
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low?
How long, how long, Almighty God of all,
Shall wrath yindictive 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 distrest,

For streams of mercy long;
Those streams which cheer the sore opprest,
And overwhelm the strong.


Recitative, 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 wall, 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 0, God of hosts, the victory is thine!

Chorus of ISRAELITES. Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust; Thy vengeance be begun :


Α Ρ Ο Ε Μ. .

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish;
Our Dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains ;
Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour,
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savour;
Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick 's a sallad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am,
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb;
That Hickey 's a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine! let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.


Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who , born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining: Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge, disobedient, And too fond of the right, to pursue the expedient. In short, 't was his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, Sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in 't;
The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:
Would you ask for his merits ? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at:
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb!
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.

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