Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?

The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies: Hero and Leander, Lycus the Centaur, and Other Poems (ed. 1827)