A SONG FOR ST. 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 corded 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, 'tis 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.

Sharp violins complain

Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion,
For the fair disdainful dame.
But oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre:

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared
Mistaking earth for heaven.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed above;

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF JOHN But guide us upward to a better day.

MILTON.

And as these nightly tapers disappear, When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere;

So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight;

So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.

No pains she suffered, nor expired | True priests, he said, and preachers