1   We sate 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. 2   While sadly we gazed on the river      Which roll’d 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! 3   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!