ODE.

Written for, and sung at the Anniversary of the General Eaton Fire Society, January 14, 1808.

Tune "GOD SAVE THE KING."

BLEST be the sacred fire,

Whose beams the man inspire,

Panting for praise!

Renown her laurel rears,

Not in a nation's tears,

But in the Sun, that cheers

Her hero's bays.

In Afric's cells confined,

Columbia's sons had pined,

'Mid hopeless gloom:

By native land forgot,

By friend "remembered not,"

They delved their captive spot,

And hailed their tomb!

Who, for the brave, could feel?
Who warm, with patriot zeal,

Their country's veins ?

Eaton, a glorious name!

Struck, from the flint of fame,

A spark, whose chymick flame
Dissolved their chains.

O'er Lybia's desert sands,

He led his venturous bands,

Hovering to save;

Where Fame her wings ne'er spread

O'er Alexander's head,

Where Cato bowed and bled

On glory's grave.

Though earth no fountain yield,

Arabs their poignards wield,
Famine appal;

Eaton all danger braves,

Fierce while the battle raves,

Columbia's Standard waves,

On Derne's proud wall,

Long to the brave be given,

The best reward of Heaven,
On earth beneath!

His country's Spartan pride,

To honest fame allied,

No serpent e're shall glide

Under his wreath.

Blest be the sacred fire,

Whose beams the man inspire,

Panting for praise!

Renown her laurel rears,

Not in a nation's tears,

But in the Sun, that cheers

Her Hero's bays.

ODE.

Written for, and sung at the Anniversary of the Massachusetts Association, for improving the breed of Horses, October 21, 1811.

Tune-"TALLY HO."

THE Steeds of Apollo, in coursing the day,

Breathe the fire, which he beams on mankind;
To the world while his light from his car they convey,
Their speed is the blaze of his mind.

Thus Ambition, who governs of honour the chace,
Keeps Life's mettled Coursers in glow;

For Fame is the Gaol, and the World is the Race,
And, hark forward! they start! Tally ho!

All ranks try the turf; 'tis the contest of life,
By a heat to achieve a renown;

And so thronged are the lists in the emulous strife,
That but few know what steed is their own;

For many, like Gilpin, alarmed at the blood,

Lose their rein and their course, as they go :

While the Rider, high trained, knows each pace in his stud, And, hark forward! he flies, Tally ho!

The Hero's a War-horse, whose brave, gen'rous breed,
Scorns the spur, though he yields to the rein;

Blood and bone, at the trump-call he vaults in full speed,
And contends for his own native plain.

In battle he glories; and pants, like his Sire,
On the soil, where he grazed, to lie low;

See his neck clothed with thunder, his mane flaked with fire, While, hark forward! he springs, Tally ho!

The Statesman's a Prancer, so tender in hoof,
He curvets, without fleetness or force;
In the heat of the field, when the race is in proof,
He gallantly bolts from the course!

With his canter and amble, he shuffles his way;

And no care of the sport seems to know;
Till he sees, as he hovers, what horse wins the day,
Then, hark forward! he shouts, Tally ho!

The Farmer's a draught, the rich blood of whose veins,
Acts with vigour the duties, he owes ;

He's a horse of sound bottom, and nurtures the plains
Where the harvest, that nurtures him, grows.
At his Country's command, on her hills or her fields,
Which her corn and her laurels bestow;

Firm in danger he moves, and in death never yields,
But, hark forward! he falls, Tally ho!

Columbia is drawn by the Steeds of the sky,
The long journey of Empire to run;

May her coursers of light never scorch as they fly,
And their race be the age of the Sun!

Nor distanced by Time, nor in Fame e'er forgot,
May her track still be known by its glow;
Like Olympian dust, may it stream o'er the spot,
Where, hark forward; she rode, Tally ho!