Classic Poem

As by the streams of Babylon
Far from our native soil we sat,
Sweet Zion, thee we thought upon,
And every thought a tear begat.

Aloft the trees that spring up there
Our silent harps we pensive hung.
Said they that captived us: " Let's hear
Some song which you in Zion sung."

Is then the song of our God fit
To be profaned in foreign land?
O Salem, thee when I forget,
Forget his skill may my right hand.

Fast to the roof may cleave my tongue
If mindless I of thee be found,
Or if, when all my joys are sung,
Jerusalem be not the ground.