From heaven's red roof the fierce reflections throw

A sea of fluctuating light below.

Now the whole army of destroyers, fleet As whirlwinds, terrible as lightnings, meet; The mountains melt like wax along their course, When downward, pouring with resistless force, Through, the void channel where the river roll'd, To ocean's verge their flaming march they hold ; While blocks of ice, and crags of granite rent, Half-fluid ore, and rugged minerals blent, Float on the gulf, till molten or immersed, Or in explosive thunderbolts dispersed. Thus shall the Schapta, towering on the brink Of unknown jeopardy, in ruin sink; And this wild paroxysm of frenzy past, At her own work shall Nature stand aghast.

Look on this desolation:

mark yon brow,

Once adamant, a cone of ashes now:

Here rivers swampt; there valleys levell'd, plains
O'erwhelm'd; one black-red wilderness remains,
One crust of lava, through whose cinder-heat
The pulse of buried streams is felt to beat;
These from the frequent fissures, eddying white,
Sublimed to vapor, issued forth like light
Amidst the sulphury fumes, that drear and dun,
Poison the atmosphere and blind the sun.
Above, as if the sky had felt the stroke

Of that volcano, and consumed to smoke,

One cloud appears in heaven, and one alone,
Hung round the dark horizon's craggy zone,
Forming at once the vast encircling wall,
And the dense roof of some Tartarean hall,
Propt by a thousand pillars, huge and strange,
Fantastic forms that every moment change,
As hissing, surging from the floor beneath,
Volumes of steam the' imprison'd waters breathe.
Then should the sun, ere evening gloom ascend,
Quick from the west the murky curtain rend,
And pour the beauty of his beams, between
These hideous arches, and light up the scene;
At the sweet touch of his transforming rays
With amber lustre all the columns blaze,
And the thick folds of cumbrous fog aloof
Change to rich drapery of celestial woof:
With such enchantment air and earth were fraught,
Beyond the coloring of the wealthiest thought
That Iceland Scalds, transported at the view,
Might deem the legends of their fathers true,
And here behold, illumining the waste,
The palace of immortal Odin placed;
Till rapt imagination joy'd to hear

The neigh of steeds, the clank of armor near,
And saw, in barbarous state, the tables spread
With shadowy food, and compass'd with the dead,
Weary from conflicts, still the fierce delight
Of spectre-warriors, in the daily fight:

Then while they quaff'd the mead from skulls of foes,
By whirlwind gusts the din of battle rose;

The strife of tongues, the tournament of words
Following the shock of shields, the clash of swords;
Till, gorged and drunken at the' enormous feast,
Awhile their revels and their clamors ceased;
Ceased to the eye and ear; yet where they lay,
Like sleeping lions, surfeited with prey,

In tawny groups, recumbent through the den,
In dreams the heroes drank and fought again.

Away with such Divinities! their birth Man's brain-sick superstition, and their mirth Lust, rapine, cruelty; their fell employ God's works and their own votaries to destroy.

The Runic Bard to nobler themes shall string His ancient harp, and mightier triumphs sing: For glorious days are risen on Iceland: - clear The gospel-trumpet sounds to every ear, And deep in many a heart the Spirit's voice Bids the believing soul in hope rejoice. O'er the stern face of this tempestuous isle, Though briefly Spring, and Autumn never, smile, Truth walks with naked foot the' unyielding snows, And the glad desert blossoms like the rose.

Though earthquakes heave, though torrents drown his cot,

Volcanoes waste his fields, the peasant's lot
Is blest beyond the destiny of kings:

Lifting his eyes above sublunar things,
Like dying Stephen, when he saw in prayer
Heaven open'd, and his Saviour beckoning there,

He cries, and clasps his Bible to his breast,

"Let the earth perish, - here is not my rest."*

* One of the finest specimens of Icelandic poetry extant is said to be the "Ode to the British and Foreign Bible Society," composed by the Rev. John Thorlakson, of Bægisâ, the translator of Milton's "Paradise Lost" into his native tongue. Of this Ode there is a Latin translation by the learned Iceland Professor, Finn Magnusson. A spirited English version has also appeared. Thorlakson is a venerable old man, and holds church preferment to the amount of six pounds five shillings per annum, out of which he allows a stipend to a curate.

VOL. III.

END OF CANTO II.

3

CANTO THIRD.

The Voyage to Greenland concluded.

A Fog at Sea.

Ice-fields. Eclipse of the Sun. The Greenland Fable of Malina and Aninga.- A Storm. - The Ice-blink. - Northern Lights. — The Brethren land.

How speed the faithful witnesses, who bore
The Bible and its hopes to Greenland's shore?
Like Noah's ark, alone upon the wave
(Of one lost world the' immeasurable grave),
Yonder the ship, a solitary speck,

Comes bounding from the horizon; while on deck
Again imagination rests her wing,

And smoothes her pinions, while the Pilgrims sing
Their vesper oraisons. The Sun retires,

Not as he wont, with clear and golden fires;
Bewilder'd in a labyrinth of haze,

His orb redoubled, with discolor'd rays,
Struggles and vanishes; along the deep,
With slow array, expanding vapors creep,
Whose folds, in twilight's yellow glare uncurl'd,
Present the dreams of an unreal world;
Islands in air suspended; marching ghosts
Of armies, shapes of castles, winding coasts,
Navies at anchor, mountains, woods, and streams,
Where all is strange, and nothing what it seems;
Till deep involving gloom, without a spark
Of star, moon, meteor, desolately dark,