Some new pieces never before publish'd by the author of the Satyrs upon the Jesuites.

Paraphrase upon the 137. Psalm.

1.

Ver. 1. FAr from our pleasant native Palestine, Where great Euphrates with a mighty current flows, And does in watry limits Babylon confine, Curss'd Babylon! the cause, and author of our woes; There on the Rivers side Sate wretched, Captive we. And in sad Tears bewail'd our misery. Tears, whose vast store increas'd the neighb'ring Tide: We wept, and strait our grief before us brought A thousand distant Objects to our thought. As oft as we survey'd the gliding Stream, Lov'd Iordan did our sad remembrance claim: As oft as we th' adjoyning City view'd, Dear Sions razed Walls our Grief renew'd:

We thought on all the Pleasures of our happy Land, Late ravish'd by a cruel Conqu'rour's hand: We thought on every piteous, every mournful thing, That might access to our enlarged sorrows bring; Deep silence told the greatness of our Grief,Line 2 Of grief too great by Vent to find relief: Our Harps as mute and dumb, as we, Hung useless, and neglected by, And now and then a broken String would lend a sigh, As if with us they felt a sympathy, And mourn'd their own, and our Captivity: The gentle River too, as if compassionate grown, As 'twould its Natives cruelty attone, As it pass'd by, in murmurs gave a pitying Groan.

2.

There the proud Conquerors, who gave us Chains,Line 3 Who all our suff'rings and misfortunes gave, Did with rude Insolence our Sorrows brave, And with insulting Raillery thus mock'd our Pains:

Play us (said they) some brisk, and airy strain, Such as your Ancestors were wont to hear On Shilo's pleasant Plain, Where all the Virgins met in Dances once a year: Or one of those, Which your illustrious David did compose, While he fill'd Israel's happy Throne, Great Soldier, Poet, and Musician all in one: Oft (have we heard) he went with Harp in hand, Captain of all th' harmonious Band, And vanquish'd all the Quire with's single skill alone: Forbid it Heav'n! forbid thou great thrice-hal∣low'd Name,Line 4 We should thy Sacred Hymns defame, Or them with impious ears profane. No, no, inhumane slaves, is this a time (Oh cruel, and preposterous demand!) When every Joy, and every Smile's a crime, A Treason to our poor unhappy native Land? Is this a time for sprightly Airs, When every look the Badg of sorrow wears,

And Livery of our Miseries, Sad miseries that call for all our Breath in sighs, And all the Tribute of our eyes, And moisture of our Veins our very bloud in tears? When nought can claim our Thoughts, Ierusalem, but thou, Nought, but thy sad Destruction, Fall, and Over∣throw?

3.

Oh dearest City! late our Nations justest Pride! Envy of all the wond'ring world beside! Oh sacred Temple, once th' Almighty's bless'd abode, Now quite forsaken by our angry God! Shall ever distant time, or Place Your firm Ideas from my Soul deface? Shall they not still take up my Breast As long as that, and Life, and I shall last?

Grant Heav'n (nor shall my Pray'rs the Curse withstand) That this my learned, skilful hand (Which now o're all the tuneful strings can boast command, Which does as quick, as ready, and unerring prove, As nature, when it would its joynts or fingers move) Grant it forget its Art and feeling too, When I forget to think, to wish, to pray for you: For ever tied with Dumbness be my tongue,Line 6 When it speaks ought that shall not to your Praise belong, If that be not the constant subject of my Muse, and Song.

4.

Remember, Heav'n, remember Edom on that day,Line 7 And with like sufferings their spight repay, Who made our Miseries their cruel Mirth and Scorn, Who laugh'd to see our flaming City burn, And wish'd it might to Ashes turn:

Raze, raze it (was their cursed cry) Raze all its stately Structures down, And lay its Palaces, and Temple level with the ground, Till Sion buried in his dismal Ruines lie, Forgot alike its Place, its Name, and Memory. And thou proud Babylon! just Object of our Hate,Line 8 Thou too shalt feel the sad reverse of Fate, Tho thou art now exalted high, And with thy lofty head o'retop'st the Sky, As if thou would'st the Pow'rs above defie; Thou (if those Pow'rs (and sure they will) prove just, If my Prophetick Grief can ought foresee) Erelong shalt lay that lofty head in dust, And blush in Bloud for all thy present Cruelty: How loudly then shall we retort these bitter Taunts! How gladly to the Musick of thy Fetters dance!

5.

A day will come (oh might I see't!) e're long That shall revenge our mighty wrong: Then bless'd, for ever bless'd be he Whoever shall return't on thee, And grave it deep, and pay't with bloudy Usury: May neither aged Groans, nor Infant Cries, Nor pitious Mothers Tears, nor ravish'd Virgins Sighs, Soften thy unrelenting Enemies, Let them as thou to us inexorable prove, Nor Age nor Sex their deaf Compassion move; Rapes, Murders, Slaughters, Funerals, And all thou durst attempt within our Sions Wall, May'st thou endure, and more, till joyful we Confess thy self out-done in artful cruelty. Bless'd, yea, thrice blessed be that barbarous Hand (Oh grief, that I such dire Revenge commend!) Who tears out Infants from their Mothers Womb, And hurls them yet unborn unto their Tomb:

Bless'd he who plucks them from their Parents Arms, That Sanctuary from all common harms, Who with their Skulls, and Bones shall pave thy Streets all o're, And fill thy glutted Channels with their scatter'd Brains and Gore.