PSALM the 137th, Paraphras'd to the 7th Verse

Proud Babylon! Thou saw'st us weep; Euphrates, as he pass'd along, Saw, on his Banks, the Sacred Throng A heavy, solemn Mourning keep. Sad Captives to thy Sons, and Thee, When nothing but our Tears were Free!

A Song of Sion they require, And from the neighb'ring Trees to take Each Man his dumb, neglected Lyre, And chearful Sounds on them awake: But chearful Sounds the Strings refuse, Nor will their Masters Griefs abuse.

How can We, Lord, thy Praise proclaim, Here, in a strange unhallow'd Land! Lest we provoke them to Blaspheme A Name, they do not understand; And with rent Garments, that deplore Above whate'er we felt before.

But, Thou, Jerusalem, so Dear! If thy lov'd Image e'er depart, Or I forget thy Suff'rings here; Let my right Hand forget her Art; My Tongue her vocal Gift resign, And Sacred Verse no more be mine!