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A picture of some olden fay—
A fairy in its charmed ring—
A creature all delight and joy—
Is that lone mountain-thing.

Around her widow'd mother's home
Among the moors she roameth wild:
Free as their winds—fair as their flowers—
Is that poor joyous child.

Oalmly at night she resteth here
Upon her mother's downy knee;
And on her breast she sleepeth sweet—
An orphan infant she.

And up she riseth in the morn,
And o'er the wilds she wanders lone.
And sitteth by her broom-hid streams:
Companions she hath none.

Companions! yes, the grass—the flowers—
The sunlight blithe—the heather brawn—
The very moss that on the moors
The wind-beat crags doth crown—

The living stars that gem the sky—
The gales that soothing murmur on—
The golden broom—are unto her
Companions every one!

The grass springs freshly up where she
The long, long summer-day is playing;
The flow'rets nod their heads in joy
Where she is blithely straying.

Yea that old moorland desert wild
That in its hoary age doth rest,
Seems smiling softly while she sits
Upon its rugged breast.

When on the hills that little maid
Is straying while her song she sings,
The gladness of her little heart
Through nature's silence rings.

The glens and stream-banks are her home,
And nature is a nurse to her;
The sounds that from her bosom come
Her infant spirit stir.

O'er moor, through glen, by rushy pool,
Untended still she seems to go;
But God doth watch that infant's feet
While wandering to and fro.

Sweet moorland child! my heart hath leapt
While gazing on each sunny tress,
Thy glowing face, thy sparkling eyes,
Thy simple happiness.

The joy of hearts that know no guile
Hath shed its glory over thee:
Thou art—what great and wise are not—
As happy as a bee.

Yea, many, who, to gather gold
And hoary wisdom, long have toil'd
Would wish to be again like thee,
Thou poor and happy child.

The mountain winds have taught thee joy;
The flowers have taught thee purity;
Love, hope, and truth, the lips of earth
Have sweetly taught to thee.

Child of the mountains! may deceit
Ne'er darken that blithe heart of thine!
May thou aye be a star of love
Upon this earth of ours to shine!

May God aye grant thee, infant sweet!
While on the moorlands thou dost tarry,
And keep thee in thy mother's home,
Thou bright young mountain fairy!
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