Classic Poem

XIV.
As by the streames of Babilon ,
Farre from our native soyle we sat,
Sweet Sion , thee we thought upon,
And ev'ry thought a teare begat.

Aloft the trees that spring up there
Our silent Harps wee pensive hung:
Said they that captiv'd us, Let's heare
Some song which you in Sion sung.

Is then the song of our God fit
To be prophan'd in forraine land?
O Salem , thee when I forget,
Forget his skill may my right hand!

Fast to the roofe cleave may my tongue,
If mindelesse I of thee be found:
Or if, when all my joyes are sung,
Jerusalem be not the ground.

Remember, Lord, how Edoms race
Cryed in Jerusalems sad day,
Hurle downe her wals, her towres deface;
And, stone by stone, all levell lay.

Curst Babels seede! for Salems sake
Just ruine yet for thee remaines!
Blest shall they be, thy babes that take,
And 'gainst the stones dash out their braines!