Paraphrase upon the 137. Psalm.

(1)

Far from our pleasant native Palestine,
Where great Euphrates with a mighty current flows,
And dos in watry limits Babylon confine,
Curst Babylon! the cause and author of our Woes;
There on the Rivers side
Sate wretched captive we,
And in sad Tears bewail'd our Misery,
Tears, whose vast Store increast the neighb'ring Tide:
We wept, and strait our Griefe before us brought
A thousand distant Objects to our Thought;
As oft as we survey'd the gliding Stream,
Lov'd Jordan did our sad Remembrance claim:
As oft as we th' adjoining City view'd,
Dear Sion's razed Walls our Griefe renew'd:
We thought on all the Pleasures of our happy Land,
Late ravish'd by a cruell Conqu'rors hand:
We thought on every piteous, every mournful Thing,
That might Access to our enlarged Sorrows bring.
Deep Silence told the greatness of our Griefe,
Of Griefe too great by Vent to find reliefe:
Our Harps, as mute and dumb as we,
Hung useless and neglected by,
And now and then a broken String would lend a Sigh,
As if with us they felt a Sympathy,
And mourn'd their own and our Captivity:
The gentle River too, as if compassionate grown,
As " twould its Natives" Cruelty attone,
As it pass'd by, in murmurs gave a pittying Groan.

(2)

There the proud Conquerors, who gave us Chains,
Who all our Suff'rings and Misfortunes gave,
Did with rude Insolence our Sorrows brave,
And with insulting Raillery thus mock'd our Pains:
Play us (said they) some brisk and airy strain,
Such as your Ancestors were wont to hear
On Shilo's pleasant Plain,
Where all the Virgins met in Dances once a year:
Or one of those,
Which your illustrious David did compose,
Whilst he fill'd Israel's happy Throne,
Great Souldier, Poet, and Musician all in one:
Oft (have we heard) he went with Harp in hand,
Captain of all th' harmonious Band,
And vanquisht all the Quire with's single Skill alone:
Forbid it Heav'n! forbid thou great thrice-hallow'd Name!
We should thy sacred Hymns defame,
Or them with impious Ears profane:
No, no, Inhuman Slaves, is this a time?
(Oh cruell and preposterous Demand!)
When every Joy, and every Smile's a crime,
A Treason to our poor unhappy native Land?
Is this a time for sprightly Airs,
When every Look the Badge of Sorrow wears,
And Livery of our Miseries,
Sad miseries, that call for all our Breath in sighs,
And all the Tribute of our Eys,
And moisture of our veins, our very Blood in Tears?
When nought can claim our Thoughts, Jerusalem, but Thou,
Nought, but thy sad Destruction, Fall, and Overthrow?

(3)

Oh dearest City! late our Nation's justest Pride!
Envy of all the wond'ring World beside!
Oh sacred Temple! once th' Almighty's blest Abode!
Now quite forsaken by our angry God!
Shall ever distant Time or Place
Your firm Ideas from my Soul deface?
Shall they not still take up my Brest,
As long as that, and Life, and I shall last?
Grant Heav'n (nor shall my Pray'rs the Curse withstand)
That this my learned skilful Hand,
(Which now o're all the tuneful Strings can boast Command,
Which dos as quick, as ready and unerring prove,
As Nature, when it would its Joints or Fingers move)
Grant it forget its Art and Feeling too,
When I forget to think, to wish, and pray for You:
For ever tied with Dumbness be my Tongue,
When it speaks ought that shall not to your Praise belong,
If that be not the constant Subject of my Muse and Song.

(4)

Remember, Heav'n, remember Edom on that day,
And with like Sufferings their Spite repay,
Who made our Miseries their cruel Mirth and Scorn,
Who laugh'd to see our flaming City burn,
And wish'd it might to Ashes turn:
Raze, raze it (was their cursed Cry)
Raze all its stately Structures down,
And lay its Palaces and Temple level with the Ground,
Till Sion buried in its dismal Ruins lie,
Forgot alike its Place, its Name, and Memory.
And thou, proud Babylon! just Object of our Hate,
Thou too shalt feel the sad Reverse of Fate,
Tho' thou art now exalted high,
And with thy lofty Head oretopst the Sky,
As if thou wouldst the Powr's above defie;
Thou (if those Powr's (and sure they will) prove just,
If my prophetick Griefe can ought foresee)
Ere long shalt lay that lofty Head in dust,
And Blush in Blood for all thy present Cruelty;
How loudly then shall we retort these bitter Taunts!
How gladly to the Musick of thy Fetters dance!

(5)

A day will come (oh might I see't!) ere long
That shall revenge our mighty Wrong;
Then blest, for ever blest be he,
Whoever shall return't on thee,
And grave it deep, and pay't with bloody Usury:
May neither Aged Groans, nor Infant-Cries
Nor piteous Mother's Tears, nor ravish'd Virgin's Sighs
Soften thy unrelenting Enemies:
Let them, as thou to us, inexorable prove,
Nor Age, nor Sex their deaf Compassion move:
Rapes, Murders, Slaughters, Funerals,
And all thou durst attempt within our Sion's Walls,
Mayst thou endure and more, till joyful we
Confess thy self outdone in artful Cruelty:
Blest, yea thrice-blessed be that barb'arous Hand
(Oh Griefe! that I such dire Revenge commend)
Who tears out Infants from their Mothers Womb,
And hurls 'em yet unborn unto their Tomb:
Blest he, who plucks 'em from their Parents Arms,
That Sanctuary from all common Harms;
Who with their Skuls and Bones shall pave thy Streets all ore
And fill thy glutted Channels with their scatter'd Brains and Gore.