ODE TO THE AIR IN MAY.

AWAKE, O Muse! my trembling pen inspire! Infuse my words with unpolluted song; Touch every line with thine own sacred fire, And bear me by thy impulses along! To thee, sweet Air, that dost around me play, Touching ethereally each silv'ry string That vibrates in the golden Harp of May, To thee I dedicate this offering. Soft, gentle Air! unnumbered missions thine, Missions of mercy, kindness, and of love; Guardian to man thou art, almost divine, Doing below as angel hosts above. Thine is it, Air, at morn's first op'ning light, To hang rich curtains in the eastern sky, Which, casting back their own refulgence bright, Proclaim to earth that glorious day is nigh. Thine is the task, as heaven's all-wondrous orb Fills the eternal arch that o'er us spans, Within thyself its fiercest rays t' absorb, And make its milder, softer radiance man's. O'er the broad earth thou wingest; every day Lighting bright smiles in mansions high and low; Blessings uncounted strewing in thy way, Bright'ning the eye, kindling the cheek with glow. When burning fever mantles o'er the brow, And dire disease foretells the angel Death, Welcome is thy refreshing entrance. Now Gold hath not there the sweetness of thy breath. With flowers thou lov'st to sport in fondest glee, Sipping from velvet cups their rich perfume; Thou lov'st to dally with the old oak-tree, And with its broad green crest sweetly commune. That sombre cloud that far on high is seen, Shading the earth from Sol's intensest rays, Is upward borne by thee, a wondrous screen, Which both thy goodness and thy power displays. Within our path thy liquid waves are found, Constant attendant upon every hour, Bearing unto us many a moving sound, And messages from each surrounding flower. And if (when weary of a long repose), Thou dost invite an earth-refreshing storm, When three-tongued lightnings in the heavens disclose Terrific thunderclouds of grandest form, Mantling the sky in blackest robes of night, And rushing onward in confusion dire, While deep explosions cause the timid fright, And heaven and earth are filled with lurid fire; Then is it that thy majesty we love; Then we behold the wonders of thy power; Thou hold'st the elements that rage above, And guidest them in that sublimest hour! But over thee, sweet Air, another hand, Higher and stronger, holier than thine own, Presides. 'Tis He, who by a seraph band, Is circled round. HE upon Heaven's Throne!