Psalme 137.
I.
BY Euphrates flowry side
We did bide,
From deare Juda farre absented,
Tearing the aire with our cryes,
And our eyes,
With their streames his streame augmented.
Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death
About this Item
- Title
- Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death
- Author
- Donne, John, 1572-1631.
- Publication
- London :: Printed by M[iles] F[lesher] for Iohn Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop in St Dunstans Church-yard in Fleet-street,
- 1633.
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- Cite this Item
-
"Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A69225.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 21, 2024.
Pages
Page 158
II.
When, poore Syons dolefull state,
Desolate;
Sacked, burned, and inthrall'd,
And the Temple spoil'd, which wee
Ne'r should see,
To our mirthlesse mindes wee call'd▪
III.
Our mute harpes, untun'd, unstrung,
Up wee hung
On greene willowes neere beside us,
Where, we sitting all forlorne;
Thus, in scorne,
Our proud spoylers 'gan deride us.
IV.
Come, sad Captives, leave your moanes,
And your groanes
Under Syons ruines bury;
Tune your harps, and sing us layes
In the praise
Of your God, and let's be merry,
Page 159
V.
Can, ah, can we leave our moanes?
And our groanes
Under Syons ruines bury?
Can we in this Land sing Layes
In the praise
Of our God, and here be merry?
VI.
No; deare Syon, if I yet
Do forget
Thine affliction miserable,
Let my nimble joynts become
Stiffe and numme,
To touch warbling harpe unable.
VII.
Let my tongue lose singing skill,
Let it still
To my parched roofe be glewed,
If in either harpe or voice
I rejoyce,
Till thy joyes shall be renewed
Page 160
VIII.
Lord, curse Edom's traiterous kinde,
Beare in minde
In our ruines how they revell'd,
Sack, kill, burne, they cry'd out still,
Sack, burne, kill,
Downe with all, let all be levell'd.
IX.
And, thou Babel, when the tide
Of thy pride
Now a flowing, growes to turning;
Victor now, shall then be thrall,
And shall fall
To as low an ebbe of mourning.
X.
Happy he who shall thee waste,
As thou hast
Us, without all mercy, wasted,
And shall make thee taste and see
What poore wee
By thy meanes have seene and tasted.
Page 145
XI.
Happy, who, thy tender barnes
From the armes
Of their wailing mothers tearing,
'Gainst the walls shall dash their bones,
Ruthlesse stones
With their braines and blood besmearing.