{"newspaper_name": "Portland gazette.", "edition": "01", "page": "p1", "byline": ""}
{"character_count": 570, "word_count": 102, "ccnet_language_score": [0.8942999839782715], "ccnet_perplexity": [2064.5], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
N-rv Pssn.-A New poem, is annouced as being
the Press at Newyork, entitled


THE SABBATH
Hail SABBATH thee hail, thee poor mans day !:
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air pure, from the city's irnoke,
While wandering nowly up the river fine,
He medtates Him whole power he makes
In each green tree that proudly fpreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots; and while he thus furveys
With elevated Joy each rural charm
lie hopes, [yet fears preiumption in the hope,)
To reach thole realms where SABBATH never ends"