The Rhode Island American, And General Advertiser

FROM THE COLUMBIAN CENTINEL.
HUSBANDMAN'S HOLIDAY.
Again, on the wing of old time has come round,
The husbandman's holiday—cloudless and bright;
Our spirits still buoyant, and bosoms still sound,
With smiles let us welcome its pathway of light:
Then hail! to our jubilee, glory and pride,
When we lay by the Plough—cast the Sickle aside,
Nor envy the fame
Of the Warriour's name,
Encircled with garlands, in victory dyed.
God of Seasons! to thee shall our praises ascend.
To thee, the first fruit of our harvest shall flow.
Hallowed strains with the smiles of festivity blend,
And gratitude warm in our bosoms shall glow:
In this clime of the west, shall thy altars be reared,
Thy name and thy glory be loved and revered,
And oft we will raise
The loud anthem of praise
For a country and home by thy blessings endeared.
Let others exalt in their prowess or might,
Or in sky-piercing Temples, which slavery gilds;
The brightness of Despot is sinking in night.
And crumbling the monument Tyranny builds;
For a season, Ambition may dwell in its Bower,
And crime every vestige of greatness devour.
But soon from on high,
With an Eagle-trained eye,
Retribution and justice shall vengefully lower.
Italia and Greece! with a climate as mild
As your vile pamper'd sons are degenerate and base.
On you awful wisdom and science first smiled.
And Learning was fostered within your embrace;
But now, wretched vassals in luxury's train,
You bow at her footstool and worship her reign:
Oh! when shall a ray
Of your earlier day
Enkindle the spirit of freedom again.
Thrice happy New-England! the home of our choice—
No foul blots of guilt thy escutcheon have stained,
Thy sons in the blessings of plenty rejoice,
And glory in freedom their valour maintained:——
Hail! hail to the era that happiness brings,
In our forests no longer the battle-shout rings,
And over our land,
Unsoiled and bland,
The Angel of Peace spreads her halcyon wings.