THE SYLPH OF SUMMER . Inscribed to William Sotheby , Esq. God said , Let there be light , and there was light ! At once the glorious sun , at his command , From space illimitable , void and dark , Sprang jubilant , and angel hierarchies , Whose long hosannahs pealed from orb to orb , Sang , Glory be to Thee , God of all worlds ! Then beautiful the ball of this terrene Rolled in the beam of first-created day , And all its elements obeyed the voice Of Him , the great Creator ; Air , and Fire , And Earth , and Water , each its ministry Performed , whilst Chaos from his ebon throne Leaped up ; and so magnificent , and decked , And mantled in its ambient atmosphere , The living world began its state ! To thee , Spirit of Air , I lift the venturous song , Whose viewless presence fills the living scene , Whose element ten thousand thousand wings Fan joyous ; o'er whose fields the morning clouds Ride high ; whose rule the lightning-shafts obey , And the deep thunder's long-careering march ! The Winds too are thy subjects ; from the breeze , That , like a child upon a holiday , On the high mountain's van pursues the down Of the gray thistle , ere the autumnal shower Steals soft , and mars his pastime ; to the King Of Hurricanes , that sounds his mighty shell , And bids Tornado sweep the Western world . Sylph of the Summer Gale , on thee I call ! Oh , come , when now gay June is in her car , Wafting the breath of roses as she moves ; Come to this garden bower , which I have hung With tendrils , and the fragrant eglantine , And mandrake , rich with many mantling stars ! 'Tis pleasant , when thy breath is on the leaves Without , to rest in this embowering shade , And mark the green fly , circling to and fro , O'er the still water , with his dragon wings , Shooting from bank to bank , now in quick turns , Then swift athwart , as is the gazer's glance , Pursuing still his mate ; they , with delight , As if they moved in morris , to the sound Harmonious of this ever-dripping rill , Now in advance , now in retreat , now round , Dart through their mazy rings , and seem to say : The Summer and the Sun are ours ! But thou , Sylph of the Summer Gale , delay a while Thy airy flight , whilst here Francesca leans , And , charmed by Ossian's harp , seems in the breeze To hear Malvina's plaint ; thou to her ear Come unperceived , like music of the song From Cona's vale of streams ; then with the bee , That sounds his horn , busied from flower to flower , Speed o'er the yellow meadows , breathing ripe Their summer incense ; or amid the furze , That paints with bloom intense the upland crofts , With momentary essence tinge thy wings ; Or in the grassy lanes , one after one , Lift light the nodding foxglove's purple bell . Thence , to the distant sea , and where the flag Hangs idly down , without a wavy curl , Thou hoverest o'er the topmast , or dost raise The full and flowing mainsail : Steadily , The helmsman cries , as now thy breath is heard Among the stirring cordage o'er his head ; So , steadily , he cries , as right he steers , Speeds our proud ship along the world of waves . Sylph , may thy favouring breath more gently blow , More gently round the temples and the cheek Of him , who , leaving home and friends behind , In silence musing o'er the ocean leans , And watches every passing shade that marks The southern Channel's fast-retiring line ; Then , as the ship rolls on , keeps a long look Fixed on the lessening Lizard , The last point of Cornwall . the last point Of that delightful country , where he left All his fond hopes behind : it lessens still ; Still , still it lessens , and now disappears ! He turns , and only sees the waves that rock Boundless . How many anxious morns shall rise , How many moons shall light the farthest seas , O'er what new scenes and regions shall he stray , A weary man , still thinking of his home , Ere he again that shore shall view , and greet With blissful thronging hopes and starting tears , Of heartfelt welcome , and of warmest love ! Perhaps , ah ! never ! So didst thou go forth , My poor lost brother ! Dr Henry Bowles , on the medical staff sent to Gibraltar during the pestilential fever there . The airs of morning as enticing played , And gently , round thee , and their whisperings Might sooth ( if aught could sooth ) a boding heart ; For thou wert bound to visit scenes of death , Where the sick gale ( alas ! unlike the breeze That bore the gently-swelling sail along ) Was tainted with the breath of pestilence , That smote the silent camp , and night and day Sat mocking on the putrid carcases . Thou too didst perish ! As the south-west blows , Thy bones , perhaps , now whiten on the coast Of old Algarva . South coast of Portugal . I , meantime , these shades Of village solitude , hoping erewhile To welcome thee from many a toil restored , Still deck , and now thy empty urn An urn is erected to his memory in Bremhill Garden . alone I meet , where , swaying in the summer gale , The willow whispers in my evening walk . Sylph , in thy airy robe , I see thee float , A rainbow o'er thy head , and in thy hand The magic instrument , Æolian harp . that , as thy wing , Lucid , and painted like the butterfly's , Waves to and from , most musically rings ; Sometimes in joyance , as the flaunting leaf Of the white poplar , sometimes sad and slow , As bearing pensive airs from Pity's grave . Soft child of air , thou tendest on his sway , As gentle Ariel at the bidding hies Of mighty Prospero ; yet other winds Throng to his wizard ' hest , inspiring some , Some melancholy , and yet soothing much The drooping wanderer in the fading copse ; Some terrible , with solitude and death Attendant on their march : — the wild Simoom , Simoom , Sameel , destructive winds in the deserts of Asia . See Bruce , &c. Riding on whirling spires of burning sand , That move along the Nubian wilderness , And bury deep the silent caravan ; — Monsoon , up-starting from his half-year sleep , Upon the vernal shores of Hindostan , And tempesting with sounds of torrent rain , And hail , the darkening main ; — and red Sameel , Blasting and withering , like a rivelled leaf , The pilgrim as he roams ; — Sirocco sad , That pants , all summer , on the cloudless shores Of faint Parthenope ; — deep in the mine Oft lurks the lurid messenger of death , The ghastly fiend that blows , when the pale light Quivers , and leaves the gasping wretch to die ; — The imp , that when the hollow curfew knolls , Wanders the misty marish , lighting it At night with errant and fantastic flame . Spirit of air , these are thy ministers , That wait thy will ; but thou art all in all , And dead without thee were the flower , the leaf , The waving forest rivelled , the great sea Still , the lithe birds of heaven extinct , and ceased The soul of melting music . This fair scene Lives in thy tender touch , for so it seems ; Whilst universal nature owns thy sway ; From the mute insect on the summer pool , That with long cobweb legs , firm as on earth The ostrich skims , flits idly to and fro , Making no dimple on the watery mass ; To the huge grampus , spouting , as he rolls , A cataract , amid the cold clear sky , And furrowing far and wide the northern deep . Thy presence permeates and fills the whole ! As the poor butterfly , that , painted gay , With mealy wings , red , amber , white , or dropped With golden stains , floats o'er the yellow corn , Idly , as bent on pastime , while the morn Smiles on his devious voyage ; if inclosed In the exhausted prison , Air-pump . whence thy breath With suction slow is drawn , he feels the change How dire ! in palsied inanition drops ! Weak flags his weary wing , and weaker yet ; His frame with tremulous convulsion moves A moment , and the next is still in death . So were the great and glorious world itself ; The tenants of its continents , all ceased ! A wide , a motionless , a putrid waste , Its seas ! How droops the languid mariner , When not a breath , along the sluggish main , Strays on the sultry surface as it sleeps ; When far away the winds are flown , to dash The congregated ocean on the Cape Of Southern Africa , leaving the while The flood's vast surface noiseless , waveless , white , Beneath Mozambique's long-reflected woods , A gleaming mirror , spread from east to west , Where the still ship , as on a bed of glass , Sits motionless . Awake , ye hurricanes ! Ye winds that harrow up the wintry waste , Awake ! for Thunder in his sounding car , Flashing thick lightning from the rolling wheels , And the red volley , charged with instant death , Were music to this lingering , sickening calm , The same eternal sunshine ; still , all still , Without a vapour , or a sound . If thus , Beneath the burning , breathless atmosphere , Faint Nature sickening droop ; who shall ascend The height , where Silence , since the world began , Has sat on Cimborazzo's highest peak , A thousand toises o'er the cloud's career , Soaring in finest ether ? Far below , He sees the mountains burning at his feet , Whose smoke ne'er reached his forehead ; never there , Though the black whirlwind shake the distant shores , The passing gale has murmured ; never there The eagle's cry has echoed ; never there The solitary condor's weary wing Hath yet ascended ! Let the rising thought Beyond the confines of this vapoury vault Be lifted , to the boundless void of space , How dread , how infinite ! where other worlds , Ten million and ten million leagues aloft , In other precincts with their shadows roll . There roams the sole erratic comet , borne With lightning speed , yet twice three hundred years Its destined course accomplishing . Then whirled , Far from the attractive orb of central fire , Back through the dim and infinite abyss , Dread flaming visitant , ere thou return'st , Empires may rise and fail ; the palaces , That shone on earth , may vanish like the dews Of morning , scarce illumined ere they fly . Dread flaming visitant , who that pursues Thy long and lonely voyage , ev'n in thought , ( Till thought itself seem in the effort lost , ) But tremblingly exclaims , There is a God : There is a God who lights ten thousand suns , Fixed stars . Round which revolve worlds wheeling amid worlds . He launched thy voyage through the vast abyss , He hears his universe , through all its orbs , As with one voice , proclaim , There is a God ! Lifted above this dim diurnal sphere , So fancy , rising with her theme , ascends , And voyaging the illimitable void , Where comets flame , sees other worlds and suns Emerge , and on this earth , like a dim speck , Looks down : nor in the wonderful and vast Of the dread scene magnificent , she views Alone the Almighty Ruler , but the web That shines in summer time , and only seen In the slant sunbeam , wakes a moral thought . In autumn , when the thin long spider gains The leafy bush's top , he from his seat Shoots the soft filament , like threads of air , Scarce seen , into the sky ; and thus sustained , Boldly ascends into the breezy void , Dependent on the trembling line he wove , Insidious , and intent on scenes of spoil And death : — So mounts Ambition , and aloft On his proud summit meditates new scenes Of plunder and dominion , till the breeze Of fortune change , that blows to empty air His feeble , frail support , and once again Leaves him a reptile , struggling in the dust ! But what the world itself , what in His view Whose dread Omnipotence is over all ! A twinkling air-thread in the vast of space . And what the works of that proud insect , Man ! His mausoleums , fanes , and pyramids , Frown in the dusk of long-revolving years , While generations , as they rise and drop , Each following each to silence and to dust , Point as they pass , and say , It was a God So the Arabs say , speaking of the stupendous monuments in the deserts . That made them : but nor date , nor name Oblivion shows ; cloud only , rolling on , And wrapping darker as it rolls , the works Of man ! Now raised on Contemplation's wing , The blue vault , fervent with unnumbered stars , He ranges : speeds , as with an angel's flight , From orb to orb ; sees distant suns illume The boundless space , then bends his head to earth , So poor is all he knows ! O'er sanguine fields Now rides he , armed and crested like the god Of fabled battles ; where he points , pale Death Strides over weltering carcases ; nor leaves , — But still a horrid shadow , step by step , Stalks mocking after him , till now the noise Of rolling acclamation , and the shout Of multitude on multitude , is past : The scene of all his triumphs , wormy earth , Closes upon his perishable pride ; For " dust he is , and shall to dust return " ! But Conscience , a small voice from heaven replies , Conscience shall meet him in another world . Let man , then , walk meek , humble , pure , and just ; Though meek , yet dignified ; though humble , raised , The heir of life and immortality ; Conscious that in this awful world he stands , He only of all living things , ordained To think , and know , and feel , there is a God ! Child of the air , though most I love to hear Thy gentle summons whisper , when the Spring , At the first carol of the village lark , Looks out and smiles , or June is in her car ; Not undelightful is the purer air In winter , when the keen north-east is high , When frost fantastic his cold garland weaves Of brittle flowers , or soft-succeeding snows Gather without apace , and heavy load The berried sweetbrier , clinging to my pane . The blackbird , then , that marks the ruddy pods Peep through the snow , though silent is his song , Yet , pressed by cold and hunger , ventures near . The robin group , familiar , muster round The garden-shed , where , at his dinner set , The laboured hind strews here and there a crumb From his brown bread ; then heedless of the winds That blow without , and sweep the shivered snow , Sees from his broken tube the smoke ascend On an inverted barrow , as in state He sits , though poor , the monarch of the scene , As pondering deep the garden's future state , His kingdom ; the rude instruments of death Lie at his feet , fashioned with simple skill , With which he hopes to snare the prowling race , The mice , rapacious of his vernal hopes . So seated , on the spring he ruminates , And solemn as a sophi , Title of the Persian Emperor . moves nor hand , Nor eye , till haply some more venturous bird , ( The crumbs exhausted that he lately strewed Upon the groundsill , ) with often dipping beak , And sidelong look , as asking larger dole , Comes hopping to his feet : and say , ye great , Ye mighty monarchs of this earthly scene , What nobler views can elevate the heart Of a proud patriot king , than thus to chase The bold rapacious spoilers from the field , And with an eye of merciful regard To look on humble worth , wet from the storm , And chilled by indigence ! But thoughts like these Ill suit the radiant summer's rosy prime , And the still temper of the calm blue sky . The sunny shower is past ; at intervals The silent glittering drops descend ; and mark , Upon the blue bank of yon western cloud , That looms direct against the emerging orb , How bright , how beautiful the rainbow's hues Steal out , how stately bends the graceful arch Above the hills , and tinging at his foot The mead and trees ! Fancy might think young Hope Pants for the vision , and with ardent eye Pursues the unreal shade , and spreads her hands , Weeping to see it fade , as all her dreams Have faded . These , O Air ! are but the toys , That sometimes deck thy fairy element ; So oft the eye observant loves to trace The colours , and the shadows , and the forms , That wander o'er the veering atmosphere . See , in the east , the rare parhelia shine In mimic glory , and so seem to mock ( Fixed parallel to the ascending orb ) The majesty , the splendour , and the shape , Of the sole luminary that informs The world with light and heat ! The halo-ring Bends over all ! With desultory shafts , And long and arrowy glance , the night-lights Aurora Borealis . shoot Pale coruscations o'er the northern sky ; Now lancing to the cope , in sheets of flame , Now wavering wild , as the reflected wave , On the arched roof of the umbrageous grot . Hence Superstition dreams of armaments , Of fiery conflicts , and of bleeding fields Of slaughter ; so on great Jerusalem , Ere yet she fell , the flaming meteor glared ; A waving sword ensanguined seemed to point To the devoted city , and a voice Was heard , Depart , depart ! From Josephus . The atmosphere , That with the ceaseless hurry of its clouds , Encircles the round globe , resembles oft The passing sunshine , or the glooms that stray O'er every human spirit . Thin light streaks Of thought pass vapoury o'er the vacant mind , And fade to nothing . Now fantastic gleams Play , flashing or expiring , of gay hope , Or deep despair ; then clouds of sadness close In one dark settled gloom , and all the man Droops , in despondence lost . Aërial tints Please most the pensive poet : and the views He forms , though evanescent , and as vain As the air's mockery , seem to his eye Ev'n as substantial images , and shapes , Till in a hurrying rack they all dissolve . So in the cloudless sky , amusive shines The soft and mimic scenery ; distant hills That , in refracted light , hang beautiful Beneath the golden car of eve , ere yet The daylight lingering fades . Hence , on the heights Of Apennine , far stretching to the south , The goat-herd , while the westering sun , far off , Hangs o'er the hazy ocean's brim , beholds In the horizon's faintly-glowing verge A landscape , A curious effect of vision in the air from refraction , by which objects appear distinct , and as real , which are below the horizon . This often appears on the coast of Italy , and has been sometimes observed from our shores , where a line of the opposite coast appears . like the rainbow , rise , with rocks That softened shine , and shores that trend away , Beneath the winding woods of Sicily , And Etna , smouldering in the still pale sky ; And dim Messina , with her spires , and bays That wind among the mountains , and the tower Of Faro , gleaming on the tranquil straits ; Unreal all , yet on the air impressed , From light's refracted ray , The Fata Morgana are all explained in books ; the effect is ascribed to reflection and refraction , as one alone will not correspond with the effects . The time when they occur is not the evening ; but the looming in our country is towards the evening . the shadow seems The certain scene : the hind astonished views , Yet most delighted , till at once the light Changes , and all has vanished ! But to him , How different in still air the unreal view , Who wanders in Arabian solitudes , When , faint with thirst , he sees illusive streams The Mirage : see Denon . Shine in the arid desert ! All around , A silent waste of dark gray sand is spread , Like ashes ; not a speck in heaven appears , But the red sun , high in his burning noon , Shoots down intolerable fire : no sound Of beast , or blast , or moving insect , stirs The horrid stillness . Oh ! what hand will guide The pilgrim , panting in the trackless dust , To where the pure and sparkling fountain cheers The green oasis . Green spots in the desert . See , as now his lip Hangs parched and quivering , see before him spread The long and level lake ! He gazes ; still He gazes , till he drops upon the sands , And to the vision stretches , as he faints , His feeble hand . Come , Sylph of Summer , come ! Return to these green pastures , that , remote From fiery blasts , or deadly blistering frosts , Beneath the temperate atmosphere rejoice ! A crown of flame , a javelin in his hand , Like the red arrow that the lightning shoots Through night , impetuous steeds , and burning wheels , That , as they whirl , flash to the cope of heaven , Proclaim the angel of the world of fire ! The ocean-king , lord of the waters , rides High on his hissing car , whose concave skirrs The azure deep beneath him , flashing wide , As to the sun the dark-green wave upturns , And foaming far behind : sea-horses breast The bickering surge , with nostrils sounding far , And eyes that flash above the wave , and necks , Whose mane , like breakers whitening in the wind , Toss through the broken foam : he kingly bears His trident sceptre high ; around him play Nereids , and sea-maids , singing as he rides Their choral song : huge Triton , weltering on , With scaly train , at times his wreathed shell Sounds , that the caverns of old ocean shake ! But milder thou , soft daughter of the air , Sylph of the Summer , come ! the silent shower Is past , and ' mid the dripping fern , the wren Peeps , till the sun looks through the clouds again . Oh , come , and breathe thy gentler influence , And send a home-felt quiet to my heart , Soothed as I hear , by fits , thy whisper run , Stirring the tall acacia's pendent leaves , And through yon hazel alley rustling soft Upon the vacant ear ! Yon eastern downs , That weather-fence the blossoms of the vale , Where winds from hill to hill the mighty Dike , Wandsdike , on the Marlborough Downs , opposite . Of Woden named , with many an antique mound , The warrior's grave , bids exercise awake , And health , the breeze of morning to inhale : Meantime , remote from storms , the myrtle blooms Beneath my southern sash . The hurricane May rend the pines of snowy Labrador , The blasting whirlwinds of the desert sweep The Nubian wilderness — we fear them not ; Nor yet , my country , do thy breezes bear , From citrons , or the blooming orange-grove , As in Rousillon's jasmine-bordered vales , Incense at eve . But temperate airs are thine , England ; and as thy climate , so thy sons Partake the temper of thine isle ; not rude , Nor soft , voluptuous , nor effeminate ; Sincere , indeed , and hardy , as becomes Those who can lift their look elate , and say , We strike for injured freedom ; and yet mild , And gentle , when the voice of charity Pleads like a voice from heaven : and , thanks to God , The chain that fettered Afric's groaning race , The murderous chain , that , link by link , dropped blood , Is severed ; we have lost that foul reproach To all our virtuous boast ! Humanity , England , is thine ! not that false substitute , That meretricious sadness , which , all sighs For lark or lambkin , yet can hear unmoved The bloodiest orgies of blood-boltered France ; Thine is consistent , manly , rational , Nor needing the false glow of sentiment To melt it into sympathy , but mild , And looking with a gentle eye on all ; Thy manners open , social , yet refined , Are tempered with reflection ; gaiety , In her long-lighted halls , may lead the dance , Or wake the sprightly chord ; yet nature , truth , Still warm the ingenuous heart : there is a blush With those most gay , and lovely ; and a tear With those most manly ! Temperate Liberty Hath yet the fairest altar on thy shores ; Such , and so warm with patriot energy , As raised its arm when a false Stuart fled ; Yet mingled with deep wisdom's cautious lore , That when it bade a Papal tyrant pause And tremble , held the undeviating reins On the fierce neck of headlong Anarchy . Thy Church , ( nor here let zealot bigotry , Vaunting , condemn all altars but its own ) , Thy Church , majestic , but not sumptuous , Sober , but not austere , with lenity Tempering her fair pre-eminence , sustains Her liberal charities , yet decent state . The tempest is abroad ; the fearful sounds Of armament , and gathering tumult , fill The ear of anxious Europe . If , O God ! It is thy will , that in the storm of death , When we have lifted the brave sword in vain , We too should sink , sustain us in that hour ! Meantime be mine , in cheerful privacy , To wait Thy will , not sanguine , nor depressed ; In even course , nor splendid , nor obscure , To steal through life among my villagers ! The hum of the discordant crowd , the buzz Of faction , the poor fly that threads the air Self-pleased , the wasp that points its tiny sting Unfelt , pass by me like the idle wind That I regard not ; while the Summer Sylph , That whispers through the laurels , wakes the thought Of quietude , and home-felt happiness , And independence , in a land I love !