NIGH PSALM CXXXVII, I. [IGH feated where the river flows, II. Now while our harps were hanged fo, Oh no! we have no voice nor hand III. Tho' far I be, fweet Sion hill, In foreign foil, exil'd from thee, Yet let my hand forget his skill, And let my tongue, faft glewed ftill IV. But IV. But thou, O Lord, fhalt not forget Did thus the bloody victors whet, V. And, Babylon, that didft us waste, Thyfelf fhall one day wafted be: And, happy he, who, what thou hast Unto us done, fhalt do to thee; Like bitterness shall make thee taste; Like woeful objects make thee fee: Yea, happy who thy little ones Shall take, and dash against the stones. FINI S. To the TUNE of, Bafcia mi vita mia. Four SONNETS made when his LADY had |