Imatges de pÓgina

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 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 distrest,

For streams of mercy long;

Those streams which cheer the sore opprest,

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 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 -

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 serv'd 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.

First and Second PRIEST.

Thrice happy, who in happy hour
To heaven their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuming power
Before they feel the blow.



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!
Thy streets forlorn,

To wilds shall turn,

Where toads shall pant and vultures prey.



Such be her fate! But listen! from afar

The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war.
Cyrus, our great restorer, is at hand,
And this way leads his formidable band.
Give, give your songs of Zion to the wind,
And hail the benefactor of mankind:
He comes pursuant to divine decree,
To chain the strong, and set the captive free.
Chorus of YOUTHS.

Rise to transports past expressing,
Sweeter from remember'd woes;
Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing,
Comes to give the world repose.

Chorus of VIRGINS.

Cyrus comes, the world redressing,
Love and pleasure in his train;
Comes to heighten every blessing,
Comes to soften every pain.


Hail to him with mercy reigning,

Skill'd in every peaceful art;
Who from bonds our limbs unchaining,

Only binds the willing heart.

Last Chorus.

But chief to Thee, our God, defender, friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity;

O Thou, without beginning, without end,
Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee.



Or 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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