The Sylphs describe their earthly duties.

Some to the Sun their Insect-Wings unfold,          

Waft on the Breeze, or sink in clouds of gold.

Transparent Forms, too fine for mortal Sight,

Their fluid Bodies half dissolv'd in Light.

Loose to the Wind their airy Garments flew,

Thin glitt'ering Textures of the filmy Dew;

Dipt in the richest Tincture of the Skies,

Where Light disports in ever-mingling Dies,

While ev'ry Beam new transient Colours flings,

Colours that change whene'er they wave their Wings.

Some in the Fields of purest Aether play,

And bask and whiten in the Blaze of Day.

Some guide the Course of wandring Orbs on high,

Or roll the Planets through the boundless Sky.

Some less refin'd, beneath the Moon's pale Light

Pursue the Stars that shoot athwart the Night,

Or suck the Mists in grosser Air below,

Or dip their Pinions in the painted Bow,

Or brew fierce Tempests on the wintry Main,

Or o'er the Glebe distill the kindly Rain.

Others on Earth o'er human Race preside,

Watch all their Ways, and all their Actions guide:

Of these the Chief the Care of Nations own,

And guard with Arms Divine the British Throne.