THE HILLS.

Behind my father's house there lies

A little grassy brae,

Whose face my childhood's busy feet

Ran often up in play,

Whence on the chimneys I looked down

In wonderment alway.

Around the house, where'er I turned,

Great hills closed up the view;

The town‘ midst their converging roots

Was clasped by rivers two;

From one hill to another sprang

The sky's great arch of blue.

Oh! how I loved to climb their sides,

And in the heather lie;

The bridle on my arm did hold

The pony feeding by;

Beneath, the silvery streams; above,

The white clouds in the sky.

And now, in wandering about,

Whene'er I see a hill,

A childish feeling of delight

Springs in my bosom still;

And longings for the high unknown

Follow and flow and fill.

For I am always climbing hills,

And ever passing on,

Hoping on some high mountain peak

To find my Father's throne;

For hitherto I've only found

His footsteps in the stone.

And in my wanderings I have met

A spirit child like me,

Who laid a trusting hand in mine,

So fearlessly and free,

That so together we have gone,

Climbing continually.

Upfolded in a spirit bud,

The child appeared in space,

Not born amid the silent hills,

But in a busy place;

And yet in every hill we see

A strange, familiar face.

For they are near our common home;

And so in trust we go,

Climbing and climbing on and on,

Whither we do not know;

Not waiting for the mournful dark,

But for the dawning slow.

Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,—

A long way we have come!

Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,—

For we have far to roam,

Climbing and climbing, till we reach

Our Heavenly Father's home.