Classic Poem

Where Babylon's broad rivers roll,
In exile we sat down to weep,
For thoughts of Zion o'er our soul
Came, like departed joys, in sleep,
Whose forms to sad remembrance rise,
Though fled for ever from our eyes.

Our harps upon the willows hung,
Where, worn with toil, our limbs reclined;
The chords, untuned and trembling, rung
With mournful music on the wind;
While foes, insulting o'er our wrongs,
Cried, — " Sing us one of Zion's songs. "

How can we sing the songs we love,
Far from our own delightful land?
— If I prefer thee not above
My chiefest joy, may this right hand,
Jerusalem! forget its skill,
My tongue be dumb, my pulse be still!