“Mortal, wouldst thou know my name, Scan the pow’rs I proudly claim. O’er this globe’s capacious round With fairy sprightliness I bound; To ev’ry clime, to ev’ry soil, With equal hand I give my toil. O’er sea and land my power extends, To ev’ry herb my care descends. Did I withhold my vital breath, Nature’s forms would sink in death. When confin’d, or swiftly driven By angry spirits in the heaven, My wrath in thunders I make known, And discord claims me as her own. ’Tis love of freedom makes me wild,-- When uncontroll’d, my nature’s mild; And oft the nymph, in dewy grot Seeks solace from my plaintive note; O’er lovers’ graves I waft a sigh, And breathe the sound of sympathy. And know, ye sons of Albion’s isle, That when the Hero of the Nile, Midst crowds with mournful pomp array’d, In the cold lap of Earth was laid, I sympathis’d with Britain’s tear, And waved the banner o’er his bier. ’Tis I who from the trembling lyre, Breathe tones of love and soft desire; ’Tis I, the spirit of the shell, Who fill with notes the listening dell; And, when the war-trump sounds alarms, ’Tis I who summon men to arms. To man a slave, though free as air, I grind his corn, his food prepare; Should he to foreign climes proceed, He yokes me like the neighing steed, And, by my quick but easy motion, He traverses the stormy ocean. His children, too, my presence court, To give them toys, and make them sport: Without my aid, their kites would lie As useless weights that ne’er could fly; Their humming tops would soundless spin, Unless I breath’d a spell within. The modest maid, without my power, Would wither like her kindred flower. Unless my cup of sweets she sips, Where are the rubies of her lips? Unless my glowing rouge she seeks, Where are the roses of her cheeks? What art again can strew her tresses With half the grace my skill possesses? Ev’n goddesses are represented In draperies which I invented. Sometimes, ’tis true, I am so frail As ruffian-like to raise your veil, And thus to curious man reveal The charms you modestly conceal.