214 THE POEMS OF ANNE ���PSALM THE 137TH PARAPHRAS'D TO THE 7 VERSE �Proud Babylon! Thou saw'st us weep; �Euphrates, as he pass'd along, Saw, on his Banks, the Sacred Throng �A heavy, solemn Mourning keep. Sad Captives to thy Sons, and Thee, When nothing but our Tears were Free! �A Song of Sion they require, �And from the neighb'ring Trees to take �Each Man his dumb, neglected Lyre, And chearful Sounds on them awake: �But chearful Sounds the Strings refuse, �Nor will their Masters Griefs abuse. �How can We, Lord, thy Praise proclaim, Here, in a strange unhallow'd Land! �Lest we provoke them to Blaspheme A Name, they do not understand; �And with rent Garments, that deplore �Above whate'er we felt before. �But, Thou, Jerusalem, so Dear! �If thy lov'd Image e'er depart, Or I forget thy Suff'rings here; �Let my right Hand forget her Art; My Tongue her vocal Gift resign, �And Sacred Verse no more be mine! ���A PREPARATION TO PRAYER �Lett no bold Pray'r, presume to rise, �Lett no unhallow'd Incense, goe A fruitlesse progresse, throo' the skyes, ��� �
