Beside a fountain, one sunny day, As bending over the stream he lay, There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light, And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.
He turned, 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, bewildered, 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 Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.
"Of all the Spirits of land and sea," Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee, "And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light "In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"
As vanquished Erin wept beside The Boyne's ill-fated river, She saw where Discord, in the tide, Had dropt his loaded quiver. "Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts, "Where mortal eye may shun you; "Lie hid--the stain of manly hearts, "That bled for me, is on you."
But vain her wish, her weeping vain,-- As Time too well hath taught her-- Each year the Fiend returns again, And dives into that water; And brings, triumphant, from beneath His shafts of desolation, And sends them, winged with worse than death, Through all her maddening nation.
Alas for her who sits and mourns, Even now, beside that river-- Unwearied still the Fiend returns, And stored is still his quiver. "When will this end, ye Powers of Good?" She weeping asks for ever; But only hears, from out that flood, The Demon answer, "Never!"
By the Feal's wave benighted, No star in the skies, To thy door by Love lighted, I first saw those eyes. Some voice whispered o'er me, As the threshold I crost, There was ruin before me, If I loved, I was lost.
Love came, and brought sorrow Too soon in his train; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 'Twere welcome again. Though misery's full measure My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure, If poured out by thee.
You, who call it dishonor To bow to this flame, If you've eyes, look but on her, And blush while you blame. Hath the pearl less whiteness Because of its birth? Hath the violet less brightness For growing near earth?