The Hills.

Behind my father's cottage lies         A gentle grassy height     Up which I often ran--to gaze         Back with a wondering sight,     For then the chimneys I thought high         Were down below me quite!     All round, where'er I turned mine eyes,         Huge hills closed up the view;     The town 'mid their converging roots         Was clasped by rivers two;     From, one range to another sprang         The sky's great vault of blue.     It was a joy to climb their sides,         And in the heather lie!     A joy to look at vantage down         On the castle grim and high!     Blue streams below, white clouds above,         In silent earth and sky!     And now, where'er my feet may roam,         At sight of stranger hill     A new sense of the old delight         Springs in my bosom still,     And longings for the high unknown         Their ancient channels fill.     For I am always climbing hills,         From the known to the unknown--     Surely, at last, on some high peak,         To find my Father's throne,     Though hitherto I have only found         His footsteps in the stone!     And in my wanderings I did meet         Another searching too:     The dawning hope, the shared quest         Our thoughts together drew;     Fearless she laid her band in mine         Because her heart was true.     She was not born among the hills,         Yet on each mountain face     A something known her inward eye         By inborn light can trace;     For up the hills must homeward be,         Though no one knows the place.     Clasp my hand close, my child, in thine--         A long way we have come!     Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,         Farther we yet must roam--     Climbing and climbing till we reach         Our heavenly father's home.