Oh, how in stranger climes can we
Pour forth Jehovah’s melody?
When thou, loved Zion, art forgot,
Let this unworthy hand decay;
When Salem is remembered not,
Mute be these guilty lips for aye!
Yea, if in transport’s livelier thrill,
Thou, Zion, art not dearer still!
Thomas Dale.
He who slumbereth not, nor sleepeth,