John Donne

Psalme Cxxxvii.

By Euphrates' flowry side We did bide, From deare Juda faire absented, Tearing the aire with our cryes ; And our eyes With their streames his streame augmented. When, poore Syon's dolefull state, Desolate ; Sacked, burned, and inthrall'd, And the temple spoil'd, which wee IS e'er should see, To our mirthlesse mindes wee call'd : Our mute harpes, untun'd, unstrung, Up wee hung On greene willowes neere beside us, Where we, sitting all forlorne, Thus in scorne Our proud spoylers 'gan deride us: Come, sad captives, leave your moanes, And your groanes Under Syon's ruines bury; Tune your harps, and sing us layes In the praise Of your God, and let's be merry. Can, ah ! can we leave our moanes, And our groanes Under Syon's ruines bury ? Can we in this land sing layes In the praise Of our God, and here be merry ? No; deare Syon, if I yet Do forget Thine affliction miserable, Let my nimble joynts become Stiffe and numme, To touch warbling harpe unable. Let my tongue lose singing skill, Let it still To my parched roofe be glewed, If in either harpe or voice I rejoice Till thy joyes shall be renewed. Lord, curse Edom's traiterous kinde Beare in minde In our ruines how they revell'd Sack, kill, burne ! they cryed out still, Sack, burne, kill! Downe with all, let all be levell'd. And thou Babel, when the tide Of thy pride, Now a flowing, growe to turning; Victor now, shall then be thrall, And shall fall To as low an ebbe of mourning. Happy he who shall thee waste, As thou hast Us, without all mercy, wasted, And shall make thee taste and see What poore wee By thy meanes have seene and tasted. Happy who thy tender barnes, From the armes Of their wailing mothers tearing, 'Gainst the walls shall dash their bones, Ruthlesse stones With their braines and blood besmearing.