Once Zion's sons their harps unstrung,
On Babylonian willows hung,
And mute their songs--with sorrow wrung,
They mourn'd their Native Land.
Captives, the Babylonians cry,
Awake Judaean melody,--
There is no music they reply,
Out of our Native Land.
And thus when I in misery
Beseech my muse to visit me,
She echo's--there's no hope for thee
Out of thy Native Land.
A bard how dull in Indian groves,
Distant from the land he loves!
The muse to melody ne'er moves
Far from her Native Land.
Day and night I ceaseless groan
Among these foreigners, alone;
Yet not for fame or gold I moan,
But for my Native Land.
Oft to the rocky heights I haste,
And gaze intent, while tears flow fast,
Over old ocean's troubled waste,
Towards my Native Land.
Then breaks my heart with grief to see
The mountain waves o'erspread the sea,
Which widely separates from me
My charming Native Land.
To see the boiling ocean near,
Whose waves as if they joy'd appear,
Rolling betwixt me and my dear
Enchanting Native Land.
O had I wings! to cure my pain
I'd flee across the widening main,
To view the extensive vales again
Of my dear Native Land.
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