Sitting by the streams

Sitting by the streams that glide

Down by Babel's tow'ring wall,

With our tears we fill'd the tide,

Whilst our mindful thoughts recall

Thee, O Sion, and they fall.

Our neglected harps unstrung,

Not acquainted with the hand

Of the skilful tuner, hung

On the willow-trees that stand

Planted in the neighbour land.

Yet the spiteful foe commands

Songs of mirth, and bids us lay

To dumb harps our captive hands;

And, to scoff our sorrow, say,

"Sing us some sweet Hebrew lay!"

But say we, "Our holy strain

Is too pure for heathen land;

Nor may we God's hymns profane,

Or move either voice or hand

To delight a savage band."

Holy Salem, if thy love

Fall from my forgetful heart,

May the skill by which I move

Strings of music tun'd by art,

From my wither'd hand depart.