STANZAS to the Memory of the Rev. T. SPENCER 162

GREENLAND.

CANTO I.

The three first Moravian Missionaries are represented as on their Voyage to Greenland, in the year 1733.— Sketch of the descent, establishment, persecutions, extinction and revival of the Church of the United Brethren from the tenth to the beginning of the eighteenth century.-The origin of their Missions to the West Indies and to Greenland.

THE moon is watching in the sky; the stars
Are swiftly wheeling on their golden cars;
Ocean, outstretcht with infinite expanse,

Serenely slumbers in a glorious trance;

The tide, o'er which no troubling spirits breathe,

Reflects a cloudless firmament beneath;

Where, poised as in the centre of a sphere,

A ship above and ship below appear;

B

A double image, pictured on the deep,

The vessel o'er its shadow seems to sleep;

Yet, like the host of heaven, that never rest,

With evanescent motion to the west,

The pageant glides through loneliness and night,
And leaves behind a rippling wake of light.

Hark! through the calm and silence of the scene, Slow, solemn, sweet, with many a pause between,

Celestial music swells along the air!

-No;-'tis the evening hymn of praise and prayer From yonder deck; where, on the stern retired,

Three humble voyagers, with looks inspired,

And hearts enkindled with a holier flame

Than ever lit to empire or to fame,

Devoutly stand:- their choral accents rise

On wings of harmony beyond the skies;

And 'midst the songs, that Seraph-Minstrels sing,

Day without night, to their immortal King,

These simple strains,-which erst Bohemian hills

Echoed to pathless woods and desert rills;

Now heard from Shetland's azure bound,

known

In heaven; and He, who sits upon the throne

In human form, with mediatorial power,

Remembers Calvary, and hails the hour,
When, by the' Almighty Father's high decree,
The utmost north to Him shall bow the knee,
And, won by love, an untamed rebel-race

Kiss the victorious Sceptre of His grace.

Then to His eye, whose instant glance pervades

Heaven's heights, Earth's circle, Hell's profoundest

shades,

Is there a groupe more lovely than those three

Night-watching Pilgrims on the lonely sea?

Or to His ear, that gathers in one sound

The voices of adoring worlds around,

Comes there a breath of more delightful praise

Than the faint notes his poor disciples raise,
Ere on the treacherous main they sink to rest,

Secure as leaning on their Master's breast?

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