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WRITTEN AFTER A VIEW OF PASSAICK PALLS,

FALLS, IN A

BOOK CALLED THE ALBUM, KEPT AT

THE INN OF MAJOR GODWIN.

HENCEFORTH may the muses,

Sans any excuses,
Enliven the landscape surrounding;

May the lyre of Apollo

Be heard in each hollow,
And dryads the thickets abound in.

The beautiful scenery

And cotton machinery,
And delicate paper-mill lasses,

And fine cataract
Make it matter of fact
That Patterson rivals Parnassus.

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AN ODE

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE MASSACHUSSETTS CHARITABLE FIRE SOCIETY. SUNG BY MR. FOX OF THE THEATRE BOSTON,

JUNE 21st, 1806.

O’ER the wild Atlantick wave, Lo the fiends of discord rave;

Battle's bray is heard from far,

Battle's bray is heard from far,
To Bellona's blood-stain'd car,
Yok'd the madding steeds of war :-

But no fiend of battle roars
Round Columbia's happy shores ;
Peace and plenty, hand in hand,
Join to bless her happy land.

CHORUS.
Laud we then the God of Heavn,
At whose behest fair peace is giv'n,
The God, who led our fathers. o'er
To Columbia’s happy shore.

Where th' embattled hosts of France,
To the kindling war advance,

There shall heroes bite the dust,

There shall heroes bite the dust,
Blood shall tinge the rubrick waves
Where the fiend of battle raves.

Sons of honour, “Sons of soul,”
Whom no tyrants can control,
Patriotick myriads join,
Round fair freedom's sacred shrine.

Ever laud the God of Heav'n,
At whose behest fair peace is giv'n,
The God, who led our fathers o'er,
To Columbia’s happy shore.

Where Britannia's sons unite
To provoke the distant fight,

There shall countless heroes fall,

There shall countless heroes fall,
When the din of battle join'd,
Hurtles in the hollow wind.

Fiends of horrour flit around,
Dying heroes strow the ground,

Countless ghosts shall wailing go
To the sullen shades below.

Laud we then the God of Heav'n,
At whose behest fair peace is giv'n,
The God who led our fathers o'er,
To Columbia's happy shore.

May not anarchs hydra form,
Thunder his voice, his breath the storm,

Desolate our happy land,

Desolate our happy land-
Mid fell discord's wild uproar,
May no fiend of anarch roar,

Call the rugged, meddling throng .
Of every clime, of every tongue,
To light fair freedom's funeral pyre,
And bid her mid the blaze expire.
May the gracious God of Heav'n,
At whose behest fair peace is giv'n,
The God who led our fathers o'er,
Still protect Columbia's shore.

THE DESPONDING LOVER.

A SONG.

I'M in love with a lady,

Who's fairer than May day,
But December storms are not colder ;

I'm ruin'd forever

Unless I can have her,
And so have I twenty times told her.

To a splinter I'm pining,

To a ghost I'm declining, You may see the sun shine through my thin sides,

Be twattled, be twitter'd,

To a shadow I'm fritter'd,
And a fricasee's made of my insides.

My tears mix'd with sighs trickle,
But her heart's an icicle,

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