Super Flumina Babylonis

By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,     Remembering thee,     That for ages of agony hast endured, and slept,     And wouldst not see.     By the waters of Babylon we stood up and sang,     Considering thee,     That a blast of deliverance in the darkness rang,     To set thee free.     And with trumpets and thunderings and with morning song     Came up the light;     And thy spirit uplifted thee to forget thy wrong     As day doth night.     And thy sons were dejected not any more, as then     When thou wast shamed;     When thy lovers went heavily without heart, as men     Whose life was maimed.     In the desolate distances, with a great desire,     For thy loves sake,     With our hearts going back to thee, they were filled with fire,     Were nigh to break.     It was said to us: Verily ye are great of heart,     But ye shall bend;     Ye are bondmen and bondwomen, to be scourged and smart,     To toil and tend.     And with harrows men harrowed us, and subdued with spears,     And crushed with shame;     And the summer and winter was, and the length of years,     And no change came.     By the rivers of Italy, by the sacred streams,     By town, by tower,     There was feasting with revelling, there was sleep with dreams,     Until thine hour.     And they slept and they rioted on their rose-hung beds,     With mouths on flame,     And with love-locks vine-chapleted, and with rose-crowned heads     And robes of shame.     And they knew not their forefathers, nor the hills and streams     And words of power,     Nor the gods that were good to them, but with songs and dreams     Filled up their hour.     By the rivers of Italy, by the dry streams beds,     When thy time came,     There was casting of crowns from them, from their young mens heads,     The crowns of shame.     By the horn of Eridanus, by the Tiber mouth,     As thy day rose,     They arose up and girded them to the north and south,     By seas, by snows.     As a water in January the frost confines,     Thy kings bound thee;     As a water in April is, in the new-blown vines,     Thy sons made free.     And thy lovers that looked for thee, and that mourned from far,     For thy sake dead,     We rejoiced in the light of thee, in the signal star     Above thine head.     In thy grief had we followed thee, in thy passion loved,     Loved in thy loss;     In thy shame we stood fast to thee, with thy pangs were moved,     Clung to thy cross.     By the hillside of Calvary we beheld thy blood,     Thy bloodred tears,     As a mothers in bitterness, an unebbing flood,     Years upon years.     And the north was Gethsemane, without leaf or bloom,     A garden sealed;     And the south was Aceldama, for a sanguine fume     Hid all the field.     By the stone of the sepulchre we returned to weep,     From far, from prison;     And the guards by it keeping it we beheld asleep,     But thou wast risen.     And an angels similitude by the unsealed grave,     And by the stone:     And the voice was angelical, to whose words God gave     Strength like his own.     Lo, the graveclothes of Italy that are folded up     In the graves gloom!     And the guards as men wrought upon with a charmed cup,     By the open tomb.     And her body most beautiful, and her shining head,     These are not here;     For your mother, for Italy, is not surely dead:     Have ye no fear.     As of old time she spake to you, and you hardly heard,     Hardly took heed,     So now also she saith to you, yet another word,     Who is risen indeed.     By my saying she saith to you, in your ears she saith,     Who hear these things,     Put no trust in mens royalties, nor in great mens breath,     Nor words of kings.     For the life of them vanishes and is no more seen,     Nor no more known;     Nor shall any remember him if a crown hath been,     Or where a throne.     Unto each man his handiwork, unto each his crown,     The just Fate gives;     Whoso takes the worlds life on him and his own lays down,     He, dying so, lives.     Whoso bears the whole heaviness of the wronged worlds weight     And puts it by,     It is well with him suffering, though he face mans fate;     How should he die?     Seeing death has no part in him any more, no power     Upon his head;     He has bought his eternity with a little hour,     And is not dead.     For an hour, if ye look for him, he is no more found,     For one hours space;     Then ye lift up your eyes to him and behold him crowned,     A deathless face.     On the mountains of memory, by the worlds wellsprings,     In all mens eyes,     Where the light of the life of him is on all past things,     Death only dies.     Not the light that was quenched for us, nor the deeds that were,     Nor the ancient days,     Nor the sorrows not sorrowful, nor the face most fair     Of perfect praise.     So the angel of Italys resurrection said,     So yet he saith;     So the son of her suffering, that from breasts nigh dead     Drew life, not death.     That the pavement of Golgotha should be white as snow,     Not red, but white;     That the waters of Babylon should no longer flow,     And men see light.