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Proud Babylon, thou Saws’t us weep,
Euphrates, as he past along,
Saw on his banks, the Sacred throng,
A heavy, Solemn mourning keep.
Sad Captives, to thy Sons, and thee;
When nothing, but our teares were free.
A song of Sion they require,
And from the Neighb’ring trees to take
Each man, his dumb, neglected Lyre,
And cheerfull Sounds on them awake;
But cheerfull Sounds, the Strings refuse,
Nor will their Master’s grief’s abuse.
How can wee Lord, thy praise Proclaime,
Here, in a Strange, unhallow’d Land,
Lest, wee provoke them, to Blaspheme
A name, they doe not understand;
And with rent garments, that deplore
Above what e’re wee felt before.
But thou Jerusalem, so dear,
If thy Lov’d Image e’re depart,
Or I forgett thy Suffrings, here,
Let my right hand, forget her art,
My tongue, her vocal gift resigne,
And Sacred verse, no more be mine.