The American Songster, Song

Thou soft flowing Avon! by thy silver stream, Of subjects immortal thy Shakspear wou'd dream: The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed For hallow'd the turf is that pillows his head.

Here swains shall be fam'd for their love and their truth, And cheerful old age feel the transports of youth: For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread, For hollow'd the turf is that pillows his head.

The love striken maiden, the sighing young swain, Here rove without danger and toy without pain: The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread, For hollow'd the turf is that pillows his head,

Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow, Be the swans on thy bosom still whiter than snow, Ever full be thy stream like his fame may it spread. And the turf ever hallow'd that pillows his head.