A Song From The Hills

Oh, the black bear on the mountain! Oh, the trout in stream and fountain! Oh, the bloodhound’s bay that echoes loud and clear! Oh, the buck, his proud head shaking, From the leafy covert breaking, As he scents the air that tells of danger near!

Oh, the sunlight softly streaming, On the polished rifle gleaming As we follow on the trail with stealthy tread! Oh, the camp-fire dimly glowing, Dusky, flickering shadows throwing O’er the piney boughs that form the hunter’s bed!

Oh, the woodland life enchanting, Memory’s farthest chamber haunting With the mountain air and odor of the pine! Though a palace door stood waiting, I would pass its golden grating With a smile and never wish its splendors mine.

For the forests with their shadows, Hidden springs and sunny meadows, And the mountains in their glory are my own: In the breeze the fir trees whisper Music like a solemn vesper, And the pines take up the song in fuller tone. Life is freer here and fuller; All beside of earth grows duller; And the one whose soul this strong enchantment fills Leaves all other things when dying, And like a homing pigeon flying Turns him back to lie and rest among the hills.