Psalm CXXXVII. Super flumina Babylonis, &c.
I
As on the banks of Chebar we state down,
Lamenting Sions Miseries,
At Sions Miseries we forgot our own,
And wisht for her such Rivers in our eyes:
We envy'd there the rolling tide,
That at Our feet did gently slide,
That at our feet more streames, than from our eyes did glide.
II
The Willows to our plaints bow'd down their ear,
And did in hollow murmurs grone;
The Willows bow'd as though they long'd to hear
Again those griefs, which they before had known:
They bow'd, and on their heads we hung
Our Harps untun'd, Our Harps unstrung,
Sorrow their strings unloos'd, but faster ty'd Our tongue.
III
'Twas then we suffred double misery,
When to us Our rude spoilers came,
And to deride our sad Captivity,
Imbittred it with Captive Sions Name:
Our selves we only griev'd before,
But when Their scorns just Sion bore,
At Her great suffrings, of our own we thought no more.
IV
“One of your songs let's hear, they proudly cry'd,
“And one of Sions Anthems play,
“Your griefs and pensive cares now throw aside,
“Sion is here, since we brought you away!
As if we, at their base Commands,
Could sing, forgetfull of our bands,
Could play, when they who stop'd our mouths, had ty'd our hands.
V
No! No! in forreign Lands if we do thus,
For Sion thus forget to grieve,
Let Her God too forget to pity us,
And these fond tongues close to their palats cleave!
Her Praises first our mouths did fill,
From Her Our hands first learn't their skill,
No wonder then, if Sion mourns, that they lie still!
VI
Remember Edom, Lord, who in the day
Jerus'lem was a Captive made,
Joyn'd with Her Enemies, and shar'd the prey,
And made us more than Babylon afraid!
“Rase it, they cri'd, down with the Wall,
“To the foundations Levell all,
“She that to Babylon will not stoop, 'tis fit She fall!
VII
Hold Babylon—where will thy rage extend?
God has enough to Sion done,
Hold, and prepare Thee Babylon for Thy end,
What mayst Thou fear, if thus He serves His Own?
Mayst Thou in Thine Our miseries see,
And all the wrongs we bore from Thee,
And know, that less than what Thou hast deserv'd, they be!
VIII
May Thy own Mercies on Thy head return,
Those Mercies which are Cruelties,
Mayst Thou in flames of Thy own kindling burn,
And send in vain to Heav'n Thy fruitless cries!
And Happy He, who on the stones,
On Flints shall dash Thy little ones,
And have than flints less bowels for their dying grones!
