PARAPHRASE OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH PSALM.

We sate us mourning by the shore Where Babel’s waters glide; The tears our aching eyelids bore Ran mingling with the tide: And there, where desert breezes swept, The way-worn exiles leaned and wept— The desert breeze replied: While on the drooping boughs, unstrung, Our tuneless, broken harps we hung. Exulting foes stood taunting by, To curse the captive throng; Bade us, in bitter mockery, Awake the glorious song That erst, ere Zion’s honors fell, High from her towers was wont to swell, In triumph loud and long. “Are Judah’s minstrels mute!” they cry— “Quenched is the soul of melody?” And shall we touch the lyre again, At heathen foe’s command? No—hushed let every chord remain!— Chained in a foreign land, For ever mute—if thou depart, My native Zion! from my heart— Be Israel’s powerless hand! God! do thy vengeful thunders sleep? Unheeded must thy people weep? Remember, Lord, when spoilers stood By Salem’s wasted side, And saw her ruins drink the flood Her children’s gore supplied. Yet—yet—the day of wrath shall come! Babel! like ours, a ruined home Shall greet thy step of pride! Blest shall he be who makes thee drain The bitter cup of Israel’s pain!