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!