SYLPH of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light
Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her, whose soul hath winged its flight
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale!
To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour;
Be it thy care, that wintry tempests fail
To rend its honours from the sylvan bowers.
Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form,
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree!
So may thy Lord, the monarch of the wind,
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind,
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!