SITTING by the streams that glide Down by Babel's tow'ring wall, With our tears we fill'd the tide, Whilst our mindful thoughts recall Thee, O Sion, and thy fall. Our neglected harps unstrung, Not acquainted with the hand Of the skilful tuner, hung On the willow-trees that stand Planted in the neighbour land. Yet the spiteful foe commands Songs of mirth, and bids us lay To dumb harps our captive hands; And, to scoff our sorrows, say, "Sing us some sweet Hebrew lay!" But say we, "Our holy strain Is too pure for heathen land; Nor may we God's hymns profane, Or move either voice or hand To delight a savage band." Holy Salem, if thy love Fall from my forgetful heart, May the skill by which I move Strings of music tun'd with art, From my wither'd hand depart. May my speechless tongue give sound To no accents, but remain To my prison-roof fast bound, If my sad soul entertain Mirth, till thou rejoice again. In that day remember, Lord! Edom's breed, that in our groans They triumph; with fire and sword Burn their city, hew their bones, And make all one heap of stones. Cruel Babel! thou shalt feel The revenger of our groans, When the happy victor's steel, As thine ours, shall hew thy bones, And make thee one heap of stones. Men shall bless the hand that tears From the mothers' soft embraces Sucking infants, and besmears With their brains the rugged faces Of the rocks and stony places. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MADAGASCAR: AUBADE by WILLIAM DAVENANT YOUR MISSION by ELLEN M. HUNTINGTON GATES WINTER HEAVENS by GEORGE MEREDITH THE BELLE OF THE BALL by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED O MAGNET-SOUTH by WALT WHITMAN LI HUA'S MESSENGER by PETER BETHANIS |