Thou art the firm unshaken rock, On which we rest; And rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And slavery's galling chains unlock, And free the oppressed: All, who the wreath of freedom twine, Beneath the shadow of their vine Are blest. We love thy rude and rocky shore, And here we stand-- Let foreign navies hasten o'er, And on our heads their fury pour, And peal their cannon's loudest roar, And storm our land: They still shall find, our lives are given To die for home;--and leant on Heaven Our hand. J. G. Percival. CCIV. SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony, to harmony, Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum, Cries, "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!" The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.