The Hills.
Come, for the mists are rising from the vale1
Like clouds of incense from a shrine of prayer ;2
Come up among the hills, the free strong gale3
Is blowing freshly there.4
There blooms the purple heather in its prime,5
There hums the wild-bee in its happy flight ;6
There sound the sheep-bells like a fairy chime7
Drifting from height to height.8
There float the light cloud shadows, and the blue9
Of the eternal dome above is nigh ;10
There are no leafy boughs to screen from view11
That arch of sapphire sky.12
Come, for the wild free solitude is sweet,13
And far below shall lie the world of care ;14
No sound of strife, no tramp of restless feet15
Can ever reach thee there.16
Come, when thy soul within thee is opprest17
With vague misgivings and with musings sad,18
For in the sense of freedom there is rest—19
The hills shall make thee glad.20
Come, for each breath inspires some lofty thought21
When the pure mountain air thy spirit fills ;22
The lessons that the ancient sages taught23
Were learned among the hills.24