Classic Poem

As by the rivers wee lay downe
which wash the Walls of Babilon,
ther wee our inward soule felt greefe
changing to mourning all releife,
Infecting by our sadd despayre
the flowry feildes, the streames, and Ayre;
As wee on Syon meditate
our Ruin'd Countryes captiv'd state,
our instruments of melody
disusd, Neglected, hanging by,
then even then, our scornefull Foes,
the proud inflicters of our woes,
deny us freedome of our grones
and bid us swallow all our mones,
comaund from our hoarse voyce an Ayre
of joye in this our sadd dispayre;
Ah can wee teach our teares to flow
inwardes, and hide in smiles our woe;
shall our lov'd harpe, and voyce now bee
the hated markes of slavery;
O Solymas, yee holy towers
Yee rivers, feildes, yee shades of ours,
wither my hand, my voyce bee dry
when I doe loose your memory:
when ever I one Joy put on
during your desolation,
thou Babilon, which now doest boast
all Bowells of compassion lost,
Though Carelesse when wee doe Complaine
know thou hast yet A sence for paine,
thrice happy who exacts from thee
the measure of our misery:
how thy swolne rivers then will rise
when thou payst back unto our eyes
the Floods of teares which they have shed
and all the streames which wee have bledd:
Then will Euphrates purpled runn
with thy bloud cruell Babilon,
thy childrens cryes will Fill the Ayre
and none shall pitty their despaire.