Exulting foes stood taunting by,
To curse the captive throng;
Bade us, in bitter mockery,
Awake the glorious song
That erst, ere Zion’s honors fell,
High from her towers was wont to swell,
In triumph loud and long.
“Are Judah’s minstrels mute!” they cry—
“Quenched is the soul of melody?”
And shall we touch the lyre again,