PSALM CXXXVII.

Tate and Brady

2 Our harps, that when with joy we sung,
Were wont their tuneful parts to bear,
With silent strings neglected hung
On willow trees that wither'd there.

3 Meanwhile our foes, who all conspir'd
To triumph in our slavish wrongs,
Musick and mirth of us requir'd;
Come, sing us one of Sion's songs.

4 How shall we tune our voice to sing?
Or touch our harps with skilful hands?
Shall hymns of joy to God our King
Be sung by slaves in foreign lands?

5 O Salem, our once happy seat,
When I of thee forgetful prove,
Let then my trembling hand forget
The speaking strings with art to move!

6 If I to mention thee forbear,
Eternal silence seize my tongue;
Or if I sing one cheerful air,
Till thy deliv'rance is my song!

7 Remember, Lord, how Edom's race,
In thy own city's fatal day,
Cried out, Her stately walls deface,
And with the ground quite level lay.

8 Proud Babel's daughter, doom'd to be
Of grief and woe the wretched prey;
Bless'd is the man who shall to thee
The wrongs thou lay'st on us repay.

9 Thrice blest, who with just rage possest,
And deaf to all the parent's moans,
Shall snatch thy infants from the breast,
And dash their heads against the stones.