LINES WRITTEN AFTER A VIEW OF PASSAICK 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. 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, Round Columbia's happy shores; CHORUS. Laud we then the God of Heav'n, 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 Sons of honour, "Sons of soul," Round fair freedom's sacred shrine. Ever laud the God of Heav'n, At whose behest fair peace is giv❜n, Where Britannia's sons unite To provoke the distant fight, 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 Laud we then the God of Heav'n, To Columbia's happy shore. May not anarch's hydra form, Thunder his voice, his breath the storm, Desolate our happy land, Desolate our happy land Mid fell discord's wild uproar, Call the rugged, meddling throng May the gracious God of Heav'n, 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, |