Proud Babylon! Thou saw'st us weep; <br />Euphrates, as he pass'd along, <br />Saw, on his Banks, the Sacred Throng <br />A heavy, solemn Mourning keep. <br />Sad Captives to thy Sons, and Thee, <br />When nothing but our Tears were Free! <br /> <br />A Song of Sion they require, <br />And from the neighb'ring Trees to take <br />Each Man his dumb, neglected Lyre, <br />And chearful Sounds on them awake: <br />But chearful Sounds the Strings refuse, <br />Nor will their Masters Griefs abuse. <br /> <br />How can We, Lord, thy Praise proclaim, <br />Here, in a strange unhallow'd Land! <br />Lest we provoke them to Blaspheme <br />A Name, they do not understand; <br />And with rent Garments, that deplore <br />Above whate'er we felt before. <br /> <br />But, Thou, Jerusalem, so Dear! <br />If thy lov'd Image e'er depart, <br />Or I forget thy Suff'rings here; <br />Let my right Hand forget her Art; <br />My Tongue her vocal Gift resign, <br />And Sacred Verse no more be mine!<br /><br />Anne Kingsmill Finch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/psalm-the-137th-paraphras-d-to-the-7th-verse/
