Verse > Anthologies > Edward Farr, comp. > Elizabethan Poetry
Edward Farr, ed.  Select Poetry of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth.  1845.
XLIV. Francis Davison
BY Euphrates’ flowry side
            We did bide,
From deare Judah far absented,
Tearing th’ aire with mournful cries,
            And our eies        5
With their streames the streame augmented:
When poore Sion’s doleful state,
Sacked, burned, and enthralled,
And thy temple spoil’d, which we        10
            Ne’er should see,
To our mirthles mindes we called.
Our mute harpes, vntun’d, vnstrung,
            Vp we hoong
On greene willowes neare beside vs,        15
When, we sitting so forlorne,
            Thus in scorne
Our prowd spoilers ’gan deride vs:—
Come, sad captives, leaue your groans,
            And your moanes        20
Vnder Sion’s ruynes bury;
To your harps sing vs some layes
            In the praise
Of our God, and let’s be merry.
Can, ah! can we leaue our groanes,        25
            And our moanes
Vnder Sion’s ruynes bury?
Can we in this land sing laies
            To the praise
Of our God, and here be merry?        30
No, deare Salem! if I faile
            To bewaile
Thine affliction miserable,
Let my nimble joynts become
            Stiffe and nombe,        35
To touch warbling harp vnable.
Let my tongue lose singing skill;
            Let it still
To my parched rooffe be glewed,
If in either harpe or voice        40
            I rejoyce,
Till thy joyes shall be renewed.
Lord, plague Edom’s traitrous kind;
            Beare in mind
In our ruyne how they revell’d:        45
Kill, sack, burne! they cride out still,
            Sack, burne, kill;
Downe with all, let all be levelled!
And thou, Babel, when the tide
            Of thy pride,        50
Now a flowing, falls to turning,
Victor now, shalt then be thrall,
            And shalt fall
To as lowe an ebb of mourning.
Happie man, who shall thee wast        55
            As thou hast
Vs without all mercie wasted,
And shall make thee tast and see
            What by thee,
Wee, poor wee, haue seene and tasted!        60
Happie, who thy tender barnes
            From the armes
Of their wayling mothers tearing,
’Gainst the walls shall dash their bones,
            Rutheles stones        65
With their braynes and blood besmearing.

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