How could we-sor'wing captive band-
Our voices raise in glad refrain,
To echo through the stranger's land,
When all our hearts were 'whelmed
in pain?

No, no, Jerusalem was yet,

Though sad and desolate her doom, The one dear spot we'd ne'er forgetOur loved, our lost, our ruined home. All else might vandal hands destroy, But, howsoever rude they be, They could not rob us of the joy, Jerusalem, of loving thee.

No light may glitter in the eye,

A gladness in the heart to prove; We cannot sing, yet can we sigh, And freight each sigh with deathless love.

Not for ourselves we weep alone,

Though onerous our burdens be; But more for thee we make our moan, And weep, Jerusalem, for thee.

But those who mock our sorrows now,
And no compassion for us show,
Shall yet beneath misfortune bow,
And drink the dregs of bitter woe.
The fiat forth has even gone
'Gainst those who had oppressed us

sore

Proud Edom and great Babylon
Shall be destroyed to rise no more.
J. F. SIMMONS.

PSALM CXXXVII.

"By the rivers of Babylon." WE sat us down and wept, Where Babel's waters slept,

And we thought of home and Zion as a long-gone happy dream;

We hung our harps in air
On the willow boughs, which there,
Gloomy as round a sepulchre, were
drooping o'er the stream.

The foes, whose chains we wore,
Were with us on that shore,

Exulting in our tears that told the
bitterness of woe.

"Sing us," they cried aloud, "Ye, once so high and proud,

The songs ye sang in Zion ere we laid her glory low."

Forth from her lips high thoughts and feelings gushed,

"How can I Zion's songs, a captive,

sing?

How sing of Jordan, here by Babel's strand?

How sing of Judah, in this dark, strange land?

Oh Zion! if I cease for thee
My earliest vows to pay-

If for thy sad and ruined walls
I ever cease to pray-
If I no more thy sacred courts
With holy reverence prize,
Or Zion-ward shall cease to turn
My ever-longing eyes-

Or if the splendor round me thrown
Shall touch this Jewish heart,

And make me cease to prize thy joy
Above all other art,-

Oh, may this hand no more with skill
E'er touch this sacred string,
And may this tongue grow cold in death,
Ere I shall cease to sing
And pray for Zion's holy courts,

Or dare to bow the knee

To these poor, blind and helpless gods, Forgetful, Lord, of thee."

ELIZABETH OAKES (PRINCE) SMITH (1806-1893).

[PSALM CXXXVII.]

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON. B. C. 570.

HERE, where I dwell, I waste to skin and bone;

The curse is come upon me, and I