Classic Poem

By Babel's streams we sat and wept,
When Sion bade our sorrows flow;
Our harps on lofty willows slept
That near those distant waters grow
The willows high, the waters clear,
Beheld our toils and sorrows there.

The cruel foe, that captive led
Our nation from their native soil,
The tyrant foe, by whom we bled,
Required a song, as well as toil:
"Come, with a song your sorrows cheer,
"A song, that Sion loved to hear."

How shall we, cruel tyrant, raise
A song on such a distant shore?
If I forget my Sion's praise,
May my right hand assume no more
To strike the silver sounding string
And thence the slumbering music bring.

If I forget that happy home,
My perjured tongue, forbear to move!
My eyes be closed in endless gloom
My joy, my rapture, and my love!
No rival grief my mind can share,
For thou shalt reign unrivaled there.