 | The Captives |  |
SCENE V.
Phraortes. Astarbe. Magi. Attendants.
The shield of Heaven has turn'd Destruction from us;
And Gratitude requires our thanks and praise.
Call up the Priests. Begin the sacred rites.
1st Mag.
Turn all your eyes to yon bright arch of Heaven.
2d Mag.
When Jove in thunder threatens impious men,
May the red lightnings scatter Media's foes,
And lay their cities desolate and waste!
1st Mag.
May the vast globe of inexhausted light,
That rolls its living fires from east to west,
Strow all his paths with fragrant herbs and flowers,
And bless his people with perpetual spring!
2d Mag.
May the bright lamp of night, the silver moon,
And all the starry myriad that attend her,
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1st Mag.
May everliving springs supply our fountains,
And wind in fertile rivers through the land!
2d Mag.
Bless him, ye winds, with ever-prosp'rous gales!
1st Mag.
Pour not your wrath in tempests on his people.
Let your sweet breath chase dearth and pestilence,
And cool our summers with eternal health!
| The Captives | |