Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          IN yonder valley there dwelt, alone,

          A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,

          ’Till spells came o’er him, and, day and night,

          He was haunted and watch’d by a Mountain Sprite.

          As once, by moonlight, he wander’d o’er

          The golden sands of that Island shore,

          A foot-print sparkled before his sight —

          ’Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

          Beside a fountain, one sunny day,

          As bending over the stream he lay,

          There peep’d down o’er him two eyes of light,

          And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

          He turn’d, but, lo, like a startled bird,

          That spirit fled! — and the youth but heard

          Sweet music, such as marks the flight

          Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

          One night, still haunted by that bright look,

          The boy, bewilder’d, his pencil took.

          And, guided only by memory’s light,

          Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

          "Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried

          A voice, low whispering by his side,

          "Now turn and see," — here the youth’s delight

          Seal’d the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

          "Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"

          Then rapt he murmur’d, "there’s none like thee,

          And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light

          In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"