Sitting by the streams that glide
Down by Babel's towering wall,
With our tears we filled the tide
Whilst our mindful thoughts recall
Thee, O Zion, and thy fall.

Our neglected harps unstrung,
Not acquainted with the hand
Of the skillful 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 Hymnes profane,
Or move eitehr 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, tuned with art,
From my withered hand depart!

May my speechless tongue give sound
To no accents, but remain
To my prison roof fast bound,
In my sad soul entertain
Mirth, till thou rejoice again!