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.