Chorus (from the Gysbrecht van Aemstel): O Night! far lovelier than the day

O Night! far lovelier than the day!
How can Herodes bear the ray,
Whose consecrated, hallow'd glows
Rich splendour o'er this darkness spread?
To reason's call his pride is dead;
Her voice his heart no longer knows.

By slaughter of the guiltless, he
Would raise up guilt and tyranny.
He bids a loud lament awake
In Bethlehem and o'er the plain,
And Rachel's spirit rise again,
To haunt the desolate field and brake.

Now wandering east, now wandering west,
For her, lone mother, where is rest,
Now that her children are no more?
Now that she sees them blood-stain'd lie,
Even at their births condemn'd to die,
And swords unnumber'd red with gore!

She sees the milk, no nurture bringing,
Unto their lifeless pale lips clinging,
Torn from their mother's breast but late;
She marks the stagnant tears reclining,
Like dew, upon their cold cheeks shining —
Poor victims of a ruthless fate.

The brows now pallid, dimm'd and fading,
Those closed and joyless eyes are shading,
Whose rays pure lustre once had given,
Like stars; and with their playful light,
Ere cover'd with death's cloud of night,
Transform'd the visage to a heaven.

Vain are description's feeble powers
To number all the infant flowers,
Which faded — died — when scarcely born.
Before their opening leaves could greet
The wooing air with fragrance sweet,
Or drink the earliest dew of morn!

So falls the corn beneath the sickle,
So shake the leaves, when tempests fickle
Awake the mountain's voice from thrall:
What can result from blind Ambition,
When raging with some dark suspicion! —
What bard so vile to mourn its fall!

Then, Rachel, haunt not spots once cherish'd;
Thy children even as martyrs perish'd:
Those first-loved fruits that sprang from thee,
From which thy heart was doom'd to sever,
In praise of God, shall bloom for ever,
Unhurt — untouch'd by tyranny.