The writings of Robert C. Sands :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where mid Babel's proud gardens and palaces glide
The waves of Euphrates, we sat by the tide;
Our harps on the willows hung mournful above,
And we wept as we thought on the land of our love!

For our masters came by, and a song they desired,
And mirth from the exile the spoiler required;
With mockery they bade us awake at their nod,
To please his blasphemers, the hymns of our God.

Say, how in the land of the heathen, his foe,
Can the songs of his temple in melody flow.
O Salem, though torn from thine altars away,
If one wish of my heart from thy mem'ry should stray,

Then for ever be withered my hand, nor again
May it win from the harp that I cherish a strain;
Be rigid my tongue, and be voiceless my breath,
Fast locked, for the crime, in the silence of death!

O God of our fathers! remember the day
When the heathen exulting made Salem their prey,
While our kindred stood by, nor our altars revered,
But the spoiler to havoc unpitying cheered.

Yet tremble, thou city of pride and of power!
The avenger shall come, and the terrible hour;
In the blood of thy children his blade shall be died,
For the God of our fathers shall fight on his side!

November 15th, 1821.