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ch! 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
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