We Sate Down And Wept By The Waters
I.
We sate down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
II.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
III.
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
Related quotes
We sate down and wept by the waters of Babel
I
We sate down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
II
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
III
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
poem by Byron from The Hebrew Melodies (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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In The Valley Of The Waters
In the valley of the waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey,
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.
The song they demanded in vain--it lay still
In our souls as the wind that died on the hill;
They called for the harp--but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of our skill.
All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be;
Our hands may be fetter'd--our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory--and, Sion!--Oh, thee.
In the valley of waters
In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey,
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.
The song they demanded in vain—it lay still
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill;
They call'd for the harp—but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of our skill.
All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be;
Our hands may be fetter'd—our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory—and, Sion!—Oh, thee.
poem by Byron from The Hebrew Melodies (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Jewish Lullaby
My harp is on the willow-tree,
Else would I sing, O love, to thee
A song of long-ago--
Perchance the song that Miriam sung
Ere yet Judea's heart was wrung
By centuries of woe.
I ate my crust in tears to-day,
As scourged I went upon my way--
And yet my darling smiled;
Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed--
My anguish curdled not the draught--
'T was sweet with love, my child!
The shadow of the centuries lies
Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes--
But, hush! and close them now;
And in the dreams that thou shalt dream
The light of other days shall seem
To glorify thy brow!
Our harp is on the willow-tree--
I have no song to sing to thee,
As shadows round us roll;
But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear
Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer
Judea's fainting soul!
poem by Eugene Field
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The Minstrel Boy
The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! -- but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery."
poem by Thomas Moore
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Roll Like The River
(lovett/peacock/clyne)
I see the birds up in the sky
They can fly so high, then why cant i
I see the fishes in the sea
And they just swim so free and laugh at me
Now I can run as fast as anyone
And no one follows me
Can you imagine anybody so free?
I got no secrets in my head
I got no books to read that must be read
I wonder down the water way
I left my cares and troubles yesterday
I got no need to be ahurrin
And no ones pushin me
And nothing ever gets to worrin me
And Ill just roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
And Ill just roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
I see new opens to the sun
And theres no door to close to anyone
Who makes rivers down my face
And Ill leave each one to find its place
I got no need to be ahurrin
And no ones pushin me
And nothing ever gets to worrin me
And Ill just roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
And Ill just roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
And Ill just roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
And Ill just roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
Roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
And Ill just roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
Roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
And Ill just roll like the river down to the sea
Now I got my freedom aint nothin holdin me
song performed by by Olivia Newton-John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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High Voltage
(well) you ask me bout the clothes I wear
And you ask me why I grow my hair
And you ask me why Im in a band
I dig doin one night stands
And you wanna see me do my thing
All you gotta do is plug me into high
I said high
High voltage rock n roll
High voltage rock n roll
High voltage, high voltage
High voltage rock n roll
Rock n roll
You ask me why I like to dance
And you ask me why I like to sing
And you ask me why I like to play
I got to get my kicks some way
And you ask me what Im all about
Come and let me hear you shout high
I said high
High voltage rock n roll
High voltage rock n roll
High voltage, high voltage
High voltage rock n roll
Rock n roll
I said high, I said high
Waaaah!
High voltage rock n roll
High voltage rock n roll
High voltage, high voltage
High voltage rock n roll
(mumble, mumble...)
Spotlight, put the lights out, happy hour!
High voltage rock n roll
High voltage rock n roll
Wine, women and song
High voltage, high voltage
Wine women and song
High voltage rock n roll
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Give Me the Harp of Epic Song
Give me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal rite,
I'm monarch of the board tonight;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I!
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm, enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Oh Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebriety!
And flash around such sparks of thought,
As Bacchus could alone have taught!
Then give the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing!
Jeptha's Daughter
I
Since our Country, our God—Oh my Sire—
Demand that thy daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was brought by thy vow—
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!
II
And the voice of my mourning is o'er—
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!
III
And of this, oh! my Father! be sure—
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow—
And the last thought that soothes me below.
IV
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my Father and Country are free!
V
When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd—
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd—
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died!
poem by Byron (1815)
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Dear Harp of my Country
Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of Silence had hung o'er thee long.
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song.
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy livliest thrill,
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine.
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Woman Of Salem
1692, six in the morning of june,
Sally kegley, age thirty-four,
Closed her diary shed kept for two scores.
Salem, salem, witches must be hung.
Let my daughter burn my book,
Let her learn to sew and cook.
Teach her not to read but weave,
Ask her not to speak but weep.
Salem, salem, witches must be hung.
Sally kegley knows how to cure the ill,
Sally kegley sees through us at will.
Salem, salem, witches must be hung.
All the towns people rushing to the hill,
Their eyes shining, ready for the kill.
Sallys flesh bound to the cross,
Her eyes searching for the ones who are close.
Oh, why? oh, why? oh, why? oh, why?
Oh, why? why? why? why? why? why? why?
Help! help! help! help!
Help! help! help! help!
Must kill, must hang, must kill, must hang,
Must kill, must hang, must kill, must hang,
Must kill, must hang, must kill, must hang,
Must kill, must hang...
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Origin of the Harp
Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rose fair -- still her cheeks smiled the same --
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.
Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.
poem by Thomas Moore
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My Gentle Harp
My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
But, like those harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
With hopes -- that now are turn'd to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Though joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.
Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure
As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,
When even the wreaths in which I dress thee
Are sadly mix'd -- half flowers, half chains?
But come -- if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be;
How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill --
Like Memnon's broken image sounding,
'Mid desolation tunefull still!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Song Of The Harp
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it soft and clear.
If I listen long enough
maybe I will hear
all the tones that vibrate,
reaching through the spheres.
Angel play upon your harp
sweet music for my ears.
All the sounds that reach our young
are not too heavenly.
Their music is just so much noise,
I know it cannot be
music that an angel plays,
music that is sweet.
All they seem to want is
a steady throbbing beat.
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it night and day.
Maybe they might listen
to the silken tones you play.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sing, Sweet Harp
Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
Some song of ancient days,
Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
Long-buried dreams shall raise; --
Some lay that tells of vanish'd fame,
Whose light once round us shone,
Of noble pride, now turn'd to shame,
And hopes for ever gone.
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;
Alike our doom is cast,
Both lost to all but memory,
We live but in the past.
How mournfully the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there,
Of voices long gone by; --
Of chieftains, now forgot, who seem'd
The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deem'd,
Now sleep without a name.
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
Of voices long gone by.
Couldst thou but call those spirits round,
Who once, in bower and hall,
Sate listening to thy magic sound,
Now mute and mouldering all; --
But, no; they would but wake to weep
Their children's slavery;
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,
The dead, at least are free!
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,
That knell of Freedom's day;
Or, listening to its death-like moan,
Let me, too, die away.
poem by Thomas Moore
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I Heard Immanuel Singing
(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his heart in Heaven.)
I heard Immanuel singing
Within his own good lands,
I saw him bend above his harp.
I watched his wandering hands
Lost amid the harp-strings;
Sweet, sweet I heard him play.
His wounds were altogether healed.
Old things had passed away.
All things were new, but music.
The blood of David ran
Within the Son of David,
Our God, the Son of Man.
He was ruddy like a shepherd.
His bold young face, how fair.
Apollo of the silver bow
Had not such flowing hair.
I saw Immanuel singing
On a tree-girdled hill.
The glad remembering branches
Dimly echoed still
The grand new song proclaiming
The Lamb that had been slain.
New-built, the Holy City
Gleamed in the murmuring plain.
The crowning hours were over.
The pageants all were past.
Within the many mansions
The hosts, grown still at last,
In homes of holy mystery
Slept long by crooning springs
Or waked to peaceful glory,
A universe of Kings.
He left his people happy.
He wandered free to sigh
Alone in lowly friendship
With the green grass and the sky.
He murmured ancient music
His red heart burned to sing
Because his perfect conquest
Had grown a weary thing.
No chant of gilded triumph—
His lonely song was made
Of Art's deliberate freedom;
Of minor chords arrayed
In soft and shadowy colors
That once were radiant flowers:—
The Rose of Sharon, bleeding
In Olive-shadowed bowers:—
And all the other roses
In the songs of East and West
Of love and war and worshipping,
And every shield and crest
Of thistle or of lotus
Or sacred lily wrought
In creeds and psalms and palaces
And temples of white thought:—
All these he sang, half-smiling
And weeping as he smiled,
Laughing, talking to his harp
As to a new-born child:—
As though the arts forgotten
But bloomed to prophecy
These careless, fearless harp-strings,
New-crying in the sky.
"When this his hour of sorrow
For flowers and Arts of men
Has passed in ghostly music,"
I asked my wild heart then—
What will he sing to-morrow,
What wonder, all his own
Alone, set free, rejoicing,
With a green hill for his throne?
What will he sing to-morrow
What wonder all his own
Alone, set free, rejoicing,
With a green hill for his throne?
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Stranger Eyes
A-when you took the fall
And then you floated down
And then you took the jump
And you fell through clouds
Yeah then you watched the world
Beat the crowd
Come on ride me high
(stranger eyes)
A-well a-ride me high
(stranger eyes)
Yeah you took the fall
And then you landed soft
You thought to yourself
Oo well Im not alone
You with your dark red soul
And your chaperone
Come on ride me high
(stranger eyes)
Wont you ride me high
(stranger eyes)
Come on ride me high
(stranger eyes)
Ride me high
(danger [? ] stranger eyes)
Stranger eyes
Oo well I need your touch
That means so much
Oo well I need your touch
Cause it means so much
A-ride me high
Come on ride me high
(stranger eyes)
A-yeah ride me high
(stranger eyes)
Ride me high
(stranger eyes)
Oh, come on and ride me high
(danger [? ] stranger eyes)
Stranger eyes
(stranger [echo] stranger eyes)
(stranger [echo] stranger eyes)
(stranger [echo] stranger eyes)
[fade]
song performed by by Cars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Æolus's Harp
Ethereal race, inhabitants of air,
Who hymn your god amid the secret grove;
Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,
And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.
Those tender notes, how kindly they upraid,
With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart!
Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,
Who died for love, these sweet complainings part.
But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,
On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws;
Or he, the sacred Bard, who sat alone
In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.
Such was the song which Zion's children sung,
When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint;
And to such sadly solemn notes are strung
Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.
Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,
Through Heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise;
Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire
To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.
Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,
Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string,
Smit with your theme, be in your chorus joined,
For, till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.
poem by James Thomson
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Mater Christianorum, Ora Pro Nobis
In the hour of grief and sorrow,
When my heart is full of care,
Seeking sadly hope to borrow
From heaven’s promises and prayer;
When around me roll the waters
Of affliction’s stormy sea,
Mary, gentle Queen of Mercy,
In that hour, oh! pray for me!
When life’s pulses high are bounding
With the tide of earthly joy,
And when in mine ears are sounding
Strains of mirth without alloy;
When the whirl of giddy pleasure
Leaves no thought or feeling free,
And I slight my heavenly treasure,
Watchful Mother, pray for me!
When the soft voice of Temptation
Lures my listening soul to sin,
And, with baleful fascination,
Strives my vain, weak heart to win;
With the combat faint and weary,
If I call not then on thee—
In that time of peril dreary,
Tender Mother, pray for me!
If, in some unguarded hour
Of dark passion or of pride,
Evil thoughts, with serpent power
To my inmost bosom glide—
Ah! while I from bonds unholy,
Vainly seek myself to free—
Mary, pure and meek and lowly,
Pray, oh! Mary, pray for me!
When with Heaven high communing
In the solemn hour of prayer—
To its strains my soul attuning,
I forget all worldly care;
When earth’s voices for a season
My vex’d spirit have left free—
Still, dear Mother, near me hover!
Still, sweet Mary, pray for me!
And in that supremest hour,
When life’s end is drawing nigh—
When earth’s scenes and pomps and power
Fade before my tear-dimmed eye—
When I on the shore am lying
Of eternity’s wide sea—
Then, O Refuge of the dying,
Tender Mother, pray for me!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Psalm CXXXVII The Babylonian Captivity
ALONG the banks where Babel's current flows
Our captive bands in deep despondence stray'd,
While Zion's fall in sad remembrance rose,
Her friends, her children mingled with the dead.
The tuneless harp, that once with joy we strung,
When praise employ'd and mirth inspir'd the lay,
In mournful silence on the willows hung;
And growing grief prolong'd the tedious day.
The barbarous tyrants, to increase the woe,
With taunting smiles a song of Zion claim;
Bid sacred praise in strains melodious flow,
While they blaspheme the great Jehovah's name.
But how, in heathen chains and lands unknown,
Shall Israel's sons a song of Zion raise?
O hapless Salem, God's terrestrial throne,
Thou land of glory, sacred mount of praise.
If e'er my memory lose thy lovely name,
If my cold heart neglect my kindred race,
Let dire destruction seize this guilty frame;
My hand shall perish and my voice shall cease.
Yet shall the Lord, who hears when Zion calls,
O'ertake her foes with terror and dismay,
His arm avenge her desolated walls,
And raise her children to eternal day.
poem by Joel Barlow
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