Classic Poem

Nigh seated where the river flows
That watereth Babel's thankful plain,
Which then our tears in pearled rows
Did help to water with their rain,
The thought of Zion bred such woes
That, though our harps we did retain,
Yet useless and untouched there
On willows only hanged they were.

Now while our harps were hanged so,
The men whose captives there we lay
Did on our griefs insulting go,
And more to grieve us thus did say:
You that of music make such show,
Come sing us now a Zion lay.
— O no, we have nor voice nor hand
For such a song, in such a land.

Though far I lie, sweet Zion hill,
In foreign soil exiled from thee,
Yet let my hand forget his skill
If ever thou forgotten be;
Yea, let my tongue fast glued still
Unto my roof lie mute in me,
If thy neglect within me spring,
Or ought I do but Salem sing.