Triumphant smiles the victor brow,
Fann'd by some angel's purple wing;
O Grave, where is thy victory now?
Invidious Death, where is thy sting?

A holy quiet reigns around;

A calm, which nothing can destroy; Nought can disturb that peace profound Which their unfetter'd souls enjoy.

Farewell! conflicting hopes and fears, Where lights and shades alternate dwell! How bright th' unchanging morn appears! Farewell! Inconstant World! Farewell!

Its duty done, as sinks the day,
Light from its load the spirit flies;
While Heaven and Earth combine to say,
Sweet is the scene where Virtue dies.

HYMN TO THE MOON.

ANONYMOUS.

How lovely is this silent scene!
How beautiful, fair lamp of Night!
On stirless woods, and lakes serene,
Thou sheddest forth thy holy light,
With beam as pure, with ray as bright,

As Sorrow's tear from Woman's breast,

When mourning over days departed, That robb'd her spirit of its rest,

And left her lone and broken-hearted.

Refulgent pilgrim of the sky,

Beneath thy march, within thy sight, What varying realms outstretching lie! Here, landscape rich with glory bright; There, lonely wastes of utter blight : The nightingale, upon the bough

Of cypress, there her song is pouring; And there, begirt with mounts of snow, For food the famish'd bear is roaming!

What marvel, that the spirits high,

Of eastern climes and ancient days, Should hail thee as a deity,

And altars to thine honour raise! So lovely wert thou to the gaze Of shepherds on Chaldean hills,

When summer flowers around were springing, And when to thee a thousand rills,

Throughout the quiet night were singing.

And lo! the dwarfish Laplander,
Far from his solitary home,
Dismay'd, beholds the evening star,
While many a mile remains to roam:
Thou lightest up the eastern dome,

And in his deer-drawn chariot, he
Is hurl'd along the icy river;
And leaps his sunken heart to see
The light in his own casement quiver.

Nor beautiful the less art thou,

When Ocean's gentlest breezes fan,
With gelid wing, the feverish glow
That day-light sheds on Hindostan !
There, on the glittering haunts of man,
And on the amaranthine bowers,

The softness of thy smile reposes,

On hedgerows, white with jessamine flowers,
And minarets o'erhung with roses.

The exile, on a foreign shore,
Dejected sits, and turns his eye
To thee, in beauty evermore,
Careering through a cloudless sky:
A white cloud comes, and passing by,
Veils thee a moment from his sight;
Then, as he rests beneath the shadows,
He thinks of many as sweet a night,
When glad he roam'd his native meadows.

Enthron'd amid the cloudless blue,
Majestic, silent, and alone,
Above the fountains of the dew,

Thou glidest on, and glidest on,
To shoreless seas, and lands unknown.

The presence of thy face appears,

Thou eldest born of Beauty's daughters,

A spirit traversing the spheres,
And ruling o'er the pathless waters.

ON THE

LITTLE CHURCH OF KRISUVICK,

IN ICELAND.

Occasioned by reading the following observation in "Mackenzie's Travels in Iceland."

"There was nothing so sacred in the appearance of this church, as to make us hesitate to use the altar as our dining-table."

BY MONTGOMERY.

THOUGH gilded domes, and splendid fanes,

And costly robes, and choral strains,
And altars richly drest;

And sculptur'd saints, and sparkling gems,

And mitred heads, and diadems,
Inspire with awe the breast;

The soul enlarged, devout, sincere,
With equal piety draws near

The holy House of God,

That rudely rears its rustic head,

Scarce higher than the peasant's shed,
By peasant only trod.

'Tis not the pageantry of show

That can impart devotion's glow,
Nor sanctify a pray❜r;

Then why th' Icelandic church disdain,
Or why its sacred walls profane,
As tho' God dwelt not there?

The contrite heart, the pious mind,

The Christian, to that spot confin'd,

Before its altar kneels!

Thero beallito hio hopes, there plights his vows, And there with low submission bows,

And to his God appeals!

In realms that touch the northern pole,
Where streams of burning lava roll
Their desolating course,
Sulphureous fountains raging boil,
Blasting th' already sterile soil,

With wild volcanic force;

Where cold, and snow, and frost conspire,
With livid, subterranean fire,

To curse the barren lands;