That stirred a ripple on its slumbering breast.
But they who led us captive touched the string,
And waked its music with unhallowed hand,
And—mocking all our sadness—bade us sing
The song of Zion in a foreign land.
Oh! never, never!—hushed be now its strains,
Far, far away her exiled children roam;
And never will they sound on other plains,
The holy music of their native home.
T. K. Hervey.