The Spirit of the Air

I am the spirit of the viewless air,
Upon the rolling clouds I plant my throne,
I move serenely, when the fleet winds bear
My palace in its flight, from zone to zone;
High on the mountain top I sit alone,
Shrouding behind a veil of night my form,
And when the trumpet of assault has blown,
Career upon the pinions of the storm;
By me the gales of morning sweetly blow,
Waving, along the bank, the bending flowers;
'T is at my touch the clouds dissolving flow,
When flitting o'er the sky, in silent showers;
I send the breeze to play among the bowers,
And curl the light-green ripples on the lake;
I call the sea-wind in the sultry hours,
And all his train of gentle airs awake;
I lead the zephyr on the dewy lawn
To gather up the pearls that speck it o'er,
And when the coolness of the night has gone,
I send it where the willows crown the shore;
I sit within the circle of the moon,
When the fair planet smiles, and brightly throws
Around the radiance of her clearest noon,
Till every cloud that passes by her glows,
When folds of fleecy vapor hang the sky,
Borne on the night-wind through the silent air,
And as they float, the stars seem rushing by,
And the moon glides away in glory there;
I lead the wild-fowl, when his untried wing
Boldly ascends the vernal arch of blue,
Before him on his airy path I fling
A magic light, that safely guides him through;
When lost in distant haze, I send his cry
Floating in mellow tones along the wind,
Then like a speck of light he hurries by,
And hills, and woods, and lakes are left behind:
When clouds are gathering, or when whirlwinds blow,
When heaven is dark with storms, or brightly fair,
Where'er the viewless waves of ether flow,
Calm, or in tempest rolling, I am there.
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