PARAPHRASE OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH PSALM.
We sate us mourning by the shore
Where Babel’s waters glide;
The tears our aching eyelids bore
Ran mingling with the tide:
And there, where desert breezes swept,
The way-worn exiles leaned and wept—
The desert breeze replied:
While on the drooping boughs, unstrung,
Our tuneless, broken harps we hung.