The Hills Of Lincoln.

I.     O the hills of old Lincoln!--I can see them to-day     As they stretch in dim distance far, far away,     And on Fancy's swift pinions my spirit hath flown     To rest 'mid the scenes which my childhood has known--     Where the old Hanging Fork, with its silvery gleam,     Glides away 'tween the meadows like thoughts in a dream,     And far to the south, with their outlines so blue,     The rugged knobs blend into heaven's own hue! II.     O the hills of old Lincoln!--how fondly I gaze     On their wildwoods and thickets and deep-tangled ways     When memory's mirror presents them to view,     And I dream once again that I tread them anew,     While raptured I listen to the music of love     That the song-birds are singing in the tree-tops above,     And the soul drifts away in a swoon of delight,     Unanchored from care and from sorrow's cold blight! III.     O the hills of old Lincoln!--my footsteps have trod     Up and down their green valleys, with shotgun and rod,     And it seems to me now that the years that have fled     Around their old summits a halo have shed     That guides the fond fancy unerringly there     When backward it wanders with childhood to share     Sweet scenes such as these, inurned in the heart,     And which from fond memory can never depart!