How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast— A thousand fathoms down! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor let the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man. Campbell.

The moon sometimes exhibits the extraordinary phenomenon of an iris or rainbow, by the refraction of her rays in drops of rain during the night-time. This appearance is said to occur only at the time of full moon, and to be indicative of stormy and rainy weather. One is described in the Philosophical Transactions as having been seen in 1810, during a thick rain; but, subsequent to that time, the same person gives an account of one which perhaps was the most extraordinary of which we have any record. It became visible about nine o'clock, and continued, though with very different degrees of brilliancy, until past two. At first, though a strongly marked bow, it was without colour, but afterwards became extremely vivid, the red, green, and purple being the most strongly marked. About twelve it was the most splendid in appearance. The wind was very high at the time, and a drizzling rain falling occasionally.

HOPE

At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey, The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus from afar each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been; And every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden, grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe. Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; Then, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! What viewless forms th' Eolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious care away! Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore Earth's loneliest bounds and ocean's wildest shore. Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields His bark, careering o'er unfathom'd fields; Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar Where Andes, giant of the western star, With meteor-standard to the winds unfurl'd, Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world. Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form! Rocks, waves, and winds the shatter'd bark delay— Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, And sing to charm the spirit of the deep. Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul. His native hills that rise in happier climes; The grot that heard his song of other times; His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom'd vale, Rush in his thought; he sweeps before the wind, And treads the shore he sigh'd to leave behind! Pleasures of Hope.