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Proud Babilon, thou saw’st 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 tears were free.
A Song of Sion, they require,
And from the neighb’ring trees, to take
Each man, his dumb, neglected Lyre,
And chearfull sounds on them awake;
But chearfull sounds, the strings refuse,
Nor will their Masters greifs, abuse.
How! can we Lord, thy Praise proclaim,
Here, in a strange, unhallow’d Land,
Least we provoke them, to Blaspheme
A name, they do not understand,
And with rent garments, that deplore
Above, what e’re we felt, before.
But thou Jersualem, so dear,
If thy lov’d Immage, e’re depart,
Or I, forgett thy suff’rings here,
Lett my right hand, forgett her Art,
My tongue, her vocal gift resign,
And Sacred verse, no more be mine.