BESIDE the streams of Babylon, in tears
Of vain desire, we sat; remembering thee,
O hallowed Sion! and the vanished years,
When Israel’s chosen sons were blest and free:
Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung
Mute on the willows of the stranger's land;
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung,
Our foes demanded from their captive-band.
How shall our voices, on a foreign shore,
(We answer'd those whose chains the exile wore,)
The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew?
If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil,
Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soil!
May my right-hand forget its cunning too!