SONG OF A SPIRIT.

In the sightless air I dwell,
On the sloping sun-beams play;
Delve the cavern's inmost cell,
Where never yet did day-light stray.

Dive beneath the green-sea waves,
And gambol in the briny deeps;
Skim every shore that Neptune laves,
From Lapland's plains to India's steeps.

Oft I mount with rapid force
Above the wide earth's shadowy zone;
Follow the day-star's flaming course
Through realms of space to thought unknown;

And listen to celestial sounds,
That swell the air, unheard of men,
As I watch my nightly rounds
O'er woody steep, and silent glen.

Under the shade of waving trees.
On the green bank of fountain clear,
At pensive eve I sit at ease,
While dying music murmurs near.

And oft, on point of airy clift,
That hangs upon the western main,
I watch the gay tints passing swift,
And twilight veil the liquid plain.

Then, when the breeze has sunk away,
And ocean scarce is heard to lave,
For me the sea-nymphs softly play
Their dulcet shells beneath the wave.

Their dulcet shells! I hear them now;
Slow swells the strain upon mine ear;
Now faintly falls — now warbles low,
'Till rapture melts into a tear.

The ray that silvers o'er the dew,
And trembles through the leafy shade,
And tints the scene with softer hue,
Calls me to rove the lonely glade;

Or hie me to some ruin'd tow'r,
Faintly shewn by moon-light gleam,
Where the lone wand'rer owns my pow'r
In shadows dire that substance seem;

In thrilling sounds that murmur woe,
And pausing silence makes more dread;
In music breathing from below
Sad, solemn Strains, that wake the dead.

Unseen I move — unknown am fear'd!
Fancy's wildest dreams I weave;
And oft by bards my voice is heard
To die along the gales of eve.