A SONG OF THE HILLS by By Eliza Craven Green

Spring, Arnside Knot and Coniston range of hills from Warton Crag

A SONG OF THE HILLS by  By Eliza Craven Green
Come, come to the hills, they are wild and free!—
A thousand voices in music call,
From the pleasant song of the mountain bee
To the sound of the rushing waterfall.

There is ever the presence of nature there,
To wrap the soul in a holy calm;
And the vernal winds in their flight appear,
As if wafted from sunny isles of balm.

For a fragrance comes from their quiet breath,
As if they had swept over incense vales;
Come, come to the hills! 'tis their wild-flower wreath
That odour has given to the spicy gales.

The crimson flowers of the fairy moss,
Like ruby sparks from an elfin mine,
Where the bee still lingers as if at a loss
Whether gems or blossoms beneath him shine.

The mountain heath with its purple bells,
The dewy leaves of the scented thyme,
And the sweet, sweet violet's honey'd cells;
Oh is it not joy the hills to climb?

The pastoral hills, where no sound is sent
From the distant world of toil and gloom;
Where the winds and waters are redolent
With music and fragrance, light and bloom.

Where ever the free song of the bird
And the rustle of leaves, like a whisper' d hymn,
In the silence of their green depths is heard;
Where the bowering branches are close and dim.
Where the bine sky arches far away,
And the silvery clouds their bright wings close,
As if they loved on that spot to stay,
Where all is calm as their own repose.

Come seek thee a home where the free heart springs
Up to the heavens with the birds that seem,
With the sparkling rush of their joyous wings,
Like the fairy shapes of a Poet's dream.

If thou rememberest that guileless time,
Ere ambition had lured thy steps away
From thy sylvan home in the mountain clime
To that world where the brightest hopes decay;
If thou hast sighed for thy boyhood's choice,
Or the vernal haunts thou hast left in vain;
If thy heart still echoes to freedom's voice,
Come, nature's child to the hills again!