When we, our weary limbs to rest,
Sat down by proud Euphrates' stream,
We wept, with doleful thoughts oppressed,
And Zion was our mournful theme.
Our harps, that when with joy we sung
Were wont their tuneful parts to bear,
With silent strings, neglected, hung
On willow trees that withered there.

Meanwhile our foes, who all conspired
To triumph in our slavish wrongs,
Music and mirth of us required:
" Come sing us one of Zion's songs."
How shall we tune our voice to sing?
Or touch our harps with skillful hands?
Shall hymns of joy to God our King
Be sung by slaves in foreign lands?

O Salem, once our happy seat!
When I of thee forgetful prove,
Let then my trembling hand forget
The speaking strings with art to move!
If I to mention thee forbear,
Eternal silence seize my tongue,
Or if I sing one cheerful air
Till thy deliverance is my song.