"The tripe," quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, "I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week:

I like these here dinners, so pretty and small;

But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all." "Oho!" quoth my friend, "he 'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice;

There's a Pasty"

a Pasty!" repeated the Jew,

"I don't care if I keep a corner for't to."

“What the De'il, mon, a Pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot,
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that;"

"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out;
"We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about.
While thus we resolv'd, and the Pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out, - for who could mistake her?That she came with some terrible news from the baker: And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven,

Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven.

Sad Philomel thus - but let similes drop

And now that I think on't, the story may stop.

To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste:

You've got an odd something a kind of discerning —
A relish
sick'ned over by learning;

a taste

At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

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.

The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon.

ACT I. SCENE 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 awhile the task, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend:
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world a foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.

First PROPHET.

Air.

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

Second PROPHET.

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. Second PROPHET.

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 Jordan rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:
These hills how sweet! those plains how wond'rous fair!
But sweeter still, 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.

First PROPHET.
Recitative.

Yet, why complain? What, though by bonds confin'd,
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 impious folly rears her front on high?
No; rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our wishes 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.

Second PROPHET.

Recitative.

But hush, my sons! our tyrant lords are near;
The sound of barbarous mirth offends mine ear;
Triumphant music floats along the vale;
Near, nearer still, it 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.

A Chaldean WOMAN.

Air.

Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure;
Love presents its brightest 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.
First PRIEST.

Wine and beauty thus inviting,

Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline?
Second PRIEST.

I'll waste no longer thought in choosing;
But, neither this nor that refusing,
I'll make them both together mine.

Recitative.

But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land,
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band?
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung?
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung?
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
The day demands it; sing us Sion's song.
Dismiss your griefs,

and join our warbling choir;

For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre!

Second PROPHET.

Bow'd down with chains, the scorn of all mankind, To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd,