All lovely things from south to north,
  All harmonies that be,
Each will its soul of joy send forth
  To enter into me.

And thus the wide earth I shall hold,
  A perfect gift of thine;
Richer by these, a thousandfold,
  Than if broad lands were mine.

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.

I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS.

I know what beauty is, for Thou
  Hast set the world within my heart;
  Its glory from me will not part;
I never loved it more than now.

I know the Sabbath afternoon: 
  The light lies sleeping on the graves;
  Against the sky the poplar waves;
The river plays a Sabbath tune.

Ah, know I not the spring’s snow-bell? 
  The summer woods at close of even? 
  Autumn, when earth dies into heaven,
And winter’s storms, I know them well.

I know the rapture music brings,
  The power that dwells in ordered tones,
  A living voice that loves and moans,
And speaks unutterable things.