National Hymn

BY THE HON. CH — — S S-MN-R

Pond'rous projectiles, hurl'd by heavy hands,
Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,
Ere she a stadium had well advanced
On the great path that to her greatness led;
Her temple's propylon was shattered;
Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
Her incubus was from her bosom hurl'd;
And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,
She took the oil with which her hair was curl'd
To grease the " Hub " round which revolves the world.