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His plumed bands

Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em
Adorn but Man with freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever;

'Tis heart alone,

Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever! Oh, that sight entrancing, When the morning's beam is glancing

O'er files, array'd

With helm and blade,
And in Freedom's cause advancing!



It is Cicero, I believe, who says “ natura ad modos ducimur;" and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers, is the object and ambition of the

Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National

present work.

Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song.

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