He went to India some years afterwards, but the general idea is sufficient for poetical purposes.
His subsequent sorrows and poverty, in his native land, are well known.
THE SYLPH OF SUMMER.[114] 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, 10 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 20 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! 30 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, 40 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, 50 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, 60 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, 70 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,[115] 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! 80 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![116] 90 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, 100 Thy bones, perhaps, now whiten on the coast Of old Algarva.[117] I, meantime, these shades Of village solitude, hoping erewhile To welcome thee from many a toil restored, Still deck, and now thy empty urn[118] 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,[119] that, as thy wing, 110 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 120 The drooping wanderer in the fading copse; Some terrible, with solitude and death Attendant on their march:--the wild Simoom,[120] 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, 130 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.

140 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, 150 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, 160 Idly, as bent on pastime, while the morn Smiles on his devious voyage; if inclosed In the exhausted prison,[121] 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! 170 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, 180 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, 190 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 200 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 210 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 220 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,[122] 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, 230 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 240 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 250 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, 260 Point as they pass, and say, It was a God[123] 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, 270 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, 280 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! 290 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.

300 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 310 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,[124] moves nor hand, Nor eye, till haply some more venturous bird, (The crumbs exhausted that he lately strewed 320 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! 330 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 340 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.