350 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[125] shoot Pale coruscations o'er the northern sky; 360 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![126] 370 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 380 In one dark settled gloom, and all the man Droops, in despondence lost.
Aerial 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 390 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,[127] like the rainbow, rise, with rocks That softened shine, and shores that trend away, 400 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,[128] the shadow seems The certain scene: the hind astonished views, Yet most delighted, till at once the light Changes, and all has vanished! 410 But to him, How different in still air the unreal view, Who wanders in Arabian solitudes, When, faint with thirst, he sees illusive streams[129] 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 420 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.[130] 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, 430 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! 440 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 450 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, 460 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,[131] Of Woden named, with many an antique mound, The warrior's grave, bids exercise awake, And health, the breeze of morning to inhale: 470 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.

480 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, 490 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 500 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 510 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, 520 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, 530 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, 540 And independence, in a land I love! [114] Inscribed to William Sotheby, Esq.
[115] The last point of Cornwall.
[116] Dr Henry Bowles, on the medical staff sent to Gibraltar during the pestilential fever there.
[117] South coast of Portugal.
[118] An urn is erected to his memory in Bremhill Garden.
[119] AEolian harp.
[120] Simoom, Sameel, destructive winds in the deserts of Asia.