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Poem	We sat down and wept by the waters Of Babel, and thought of the day When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, Made Salem's high places his prey; And ye, oh her desolate daughters! Were scattered all weeping away. While sadly we gazed on the river Which rolled on in freedom below, They demanded the song; but, oh never That triumph the stranger shall know! May this right hand be withered for ever, Ere it string our high harp for the foe! On the willow that harp is suspended, Oh Salem! its sound should be free; And the hour when thy glories were ended But left me that token of thee: And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended With the voice of the spoiler by me!
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