"By the Waters of Babylon"
In the valley of waters we wept on the dayWhen the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey;And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,And our hearts were so full of the land far away!
The song they demanded in vain--it lay stillIn our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill--They called for the harp--but our blood they shall spillEre our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill.
All stringlessly hung in the willow's sad tree,As dead as her dead-leaf, those mute harps must be:Our hands may be fettered--our tears still are freeFor our God--and our Glory--and Sion, Oh Thee!
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